


A Wounded Soul

by MyBlueBooks



Series: Brothers [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Incest, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst, Brotherhood, Depression, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Other, Sacrifice, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, They ARE brothers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 49,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyBlueBooks/pseuds/MyBlueBooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock Holmes will realise their childhood together was the best thing they could have ever experienced. But adulthood, decisions and a war will tear them apart for what they believe, will be forever. SEQUEL TO "WE ARE DIFFERENT"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing Happens to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Not an English speaker. Apologies in advance for my mistakes. I'm in the process of editing, so they will be fixed soon. Thanks for reading!

"Nothing happens to me."

The young woman looked down at her notebook, and then him. A long and unconfortable silence fell over the room. The only sound that could be heard were the sounds of the city below them. Central London as loudly as he used to remember. There was more and more cars and more and more noises. The smell was different too. With the fear of a possible war, and after the bombings attack in the underground, he felt how the city was blinded with police men and high security. Certainly the British Government was working very hard to keep order in his people. He must be working very hard.

Before she could say a word, he speaks. His voice stills firm and determinated. He's a man who came back from a war, after saving lives. But no one could save him from what happened to him. His shoulder is hurting him right now. The chair was certainly unconfortable, he imagined a therapy lying on a leather couch like the one you see on films, but it doesn't exist. You don't know what is therapy until you experienced it. Like war.

"They keep telling me I had a family waiting for me after-"

He can't end the sentence and that makes him feel a coward and a weak man. He knows his therapist won't say anything because what he says it's part of her professional secret. She won't tell anyone about his tears, about his silences, about his weakness and his nightmares. But the feel remains to his chest, and he couldn't help but let a heavy tear fall over his cheek.

She asks him to talk about his family. About those people he haven't seen in years and probably they all had forgot everything about him.  
His face remains calm even when he wants to cry, and he swallow his tears. A few deep breaths and he closes his eyes to remeber them. He feels ready to talk. John is ready to remember.

"Every time I closed my eyes to remember them, the first thing that comes to my mind is the green grass.  _She_  always tried to keep it cut and neat, no matter the season. Her red roses were her biggest devotion... she taught me how to plant it, cut it and keep it clean and safe-"

He stops for a moment, and contains a little laugh before continuing with his speech. His therapist starts writing something on her notebook and looks at him smiling. He's making a progress.

"-There was also an old greenhouse. It had long and wide glass walls, but it had strange stains. I could see a large counter and a table inside, with things on them I couldn't tell until I was there. It was a sunny afternoon and the petri dishes over the table were uncountable. There was so many, even more than in Med School."

His therapist keeps writing but she stops when he stops talking. "She's your mother, John?." His gaze falls on the window and he can see a yellow and little bird outside. Quite strange in London. He can't help but keep his gaze on the window and remember her. She used to keep an eye on him like a real mother, even when she wasn't his mother. But she was the only one he could remember. Elizabeth gave him a new life, not only a home and a plate with food everyday. Not only clothes, toys, books, and his first stethoscope, the one he keeps using in his job.

"She  _was_. She died a little bit before I left to Afghanistan. Elizabeth."

Another awkward and long silence fall over the room. He's memorizing all the different patterns of the wall opposite him. It has a light blue wallpaper with yellow flowers. Blue. Her favourite colour. The same colour she used in his old room, the last room in the hallway.

Ella is waiting for him to continue, she doesn't want to push him. He's making great advances, and she doesn't want him to be back again at that time when he couldn't talk a word about his family. The war had left him not only physical scars, and a psychosomatic limp for a trauma. The war and his last moments with his family had left on him important wounds on him.

"Mum- Elizabeth was an angel. She always supported me on everything I wanted to do. When I told them I wanted to attend St. Barth's instead of Cambridge, Richard almost killed me but she... she supported me."

"Who's Richard?"

John hesitates for a moment, but there's no way back on his speech. He can't stop denying them. He needs to talk about them.

"My  _father._ "

Far away of letting his continue alone, Ella asks him about his brothers. She knows he has brothers. She knows John is hidding something behind them. It took him several appointments with her to talk about his family, and get to the point. Whatever happened to John before leave to Afghanistan, had happened with his brothers.

John's left hand is shaking, but he hid it placing it beside his left leg. His right hand is holding his stick. He hates his stick. It makes him feel an invalid and useless man. But it reminds him his father. In his last years, Richard had to use one since arthritis was affecting him more and more. He was there to help him, but there wasn't anything he could do to make him feel better. It was his time. And he died just after his departure.

"I don't have  _brothers._ "


	2. Words Spoken

"You can't do this to me."

The mug, his blue mug was broken over the floor. Tea and milk were spread over the blue carpet. Definetly the maids were going to be mad at that but the blue carpet was the last thing he could think of in what he knew it was going to be hard. Not like no one had warn him beforehand.

His brother looked at him with a look he never felt on him before. There was anger, rage... pain. He felt his brother Sherlock suffering for his choice. But there's nothing he could do to stop him. John was going to Afghanistan and no one could stop him.

"Sherlock, look-"

"Don't, John."

He kept his position, but his gaze was on the floor. Sherlock's dark and massive hair fell over his eyes. John didn't need to look at him to know there were tears falling. He felt the pain raising over his chest. His heart was beating quickly and he felt like if it was trying to jump from his ribcage through his throat.

It had been the most difficult desicion of his life, but he had no regrets. John was leaving the next day. And he knew it was better if Sherlock was the last one to know.

Sherlock Holmes had his own thoughts and ideas about the war. Let's separate his eccentricities of his speech, because he had a strong idea of what was going on the world. 'thousands of men fighting for something that is not worth it'. It may had been his opinion, but it hurt John. His father, his biological father had been a soldier, and his mother a nurse.

Certainly he became a doctor recieving the best marks and the best honours at Saint Batholomew's Medical School. Now he wanted to know his father was going to be proud of him, whenever he were in that moment.  
His brother knew that. Sherlock knew he was the last one knowing John was leaving to fight for 'Queen and for the Country' giving his medical services in exchange of nothing. He began to connect the dots. Mother died a few weeks ago.

Mother knew it.

And she died of grief.

* * *

_A bad healed flu had ended in a pneumonia. And in the middle of the winter, it was impossible to take care of her. She had been so stubborn. Even when there was plenty of maids and a good gardener, she wanted to take care of her roses and her green grass by herself and now it was covered with white snow._

_John promised her he was going to be her doctor once he finished his course. And he did. After the obligatory pictures, he was holding his diploma when Elizabeth stroked his hand and with a warm smile kissed his cheek._

_After his two little boys left home to live in London by themselves her health had been deteriorating. Her dark hair was now all grey and his soft skin was marked with deep wrinkles near her grey eyes, Sherlock's eyes._   
_John convinced Sherlock to move back to the Holmes's manor. He was a doctor and he didn't need another doctor to say to him what he already knew. The dark haired young man never asked him why they needed to be back at their home and spend every minute of the day near their mother. No one told Elizabeth why they were back again. Even Mycroft was back with a good excuse he had holidays. Something no one could believe since the situation of the country._

_Richard Holmes never asked questions. He believed with his whole life that his son was doing the right thing. But it was good for him and his wife to have the house full again with their sons._   
_It was so good to have breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner all together. Like the old times. And like the old times, Sherlock and John still had their little fights under the table, kicking the other's legs. His son, the one who was the spitting image of his mother was still making comments about his older brother, and John, the peaceful one was still making him stop it._

_Not even the weakness of her illness stopped Elizabeth from knitting something for every member of the family. Mycroft, John and Richard got a jumper almost the same model, but in different colours. Mycroft's was black, Richard's was blue and John's was oatmeal colour. But Sherlock got a blue scarf._

_Sherlock smiled at her mother, and smelled the scarf. It smelled like her. It smelled like Mother._

_For some reason, Mycroft and Sherlock went back to London to keep an eye on their business. The older Holmes needed to look for paperwork and to keep an eye in his new assistant. The latter needed to pay the rent to his landlord and to search for things to take with him back home. John stayed, saying he needed to be with Mother._   
_He told her one morning he was leaving._

_"I can't do anything to stop you, my son. I always wanted you to be free."_

_John was sitting next to her in his parent's bed. Tears were falling over his cheeks and he felt like a five year old boy again. He felt the pain on his chest, the same pain he felt when he woke up one morning in an orphanage after his parents death. Elizabeth smiled at him, and hugged him. It wasn't the same hugs she used to give to him, the ones he felt like she was going to break his ribs. It was a weak hug. She was dying._

_"Promise me you'll back and you'll have a lovely family. Take care of Richard, he's becoming a very stubborn man, you know."_

_John laughed a bit, and Elizabeth stroked his hand. He was wearing the jumper she knitted for him. Under her touch it felt soft and warm. She could feel the warmness of his son through it._

_"Take care of Sherlock, dear. I know he loves Mycroft, no matter how much he keeps denying it. But we both know how much he loves you. You two are brothers. Always remember that, son of mine."_

_"Yes, Mummy."_

_They stayed there, drinking tea and watching telly at times when the rest of the family arrived. John and Elizabeth didn't need to say it. They didn't need to use words to say what was coming. They both knew she was leaving soon._

_Sherlock took very seriously his mother's condition. Despite John never told him about it, he knew she was in her last moments. And remembering how John and he had cut the roses for her one afternoon many years ago, he ran to the garden that day._   
_He cut twelve roses, and cleaned them. He put them on a vase beside his mother's bed and the room was filled with their smell. For John, it was a smell he could remember very well from his childhood days. From that afternoon with Sherlock._

_And that night just before dinner, she died and all of them cried, even Sherlock._

* * *

"You're my brother, Sherlock. I'll back, I promise. I promised to Mummy-"

"We are different! You were just a replacement. You're not John Holmes. You're not my brother!"

He tried very hard not to fall to the floor. His knees were strong, but not his eyes. Heavy and painful tears fell over his cheeks. The man in front of him saw the damage he had caused. He was speechless.

"You're not John Holmes. you were just a replacement. A new piece of forniture Father bought to Mother because John, the real John Holmes died!"

"Wha-?"

Mycroft appeared in the scene. He was pale and he tried to calm Sherlock who was still standing in front of John, shouting at him. He tried to put himself between them feeling the tension on his brother's voice. And his biggest fear was watching Sherlock beating John, something that never happend. But he was so close to the blonde man that it was a possible thing to happen.

"John, Sherlock is not-"

"Shut up, Mycroft! He needs to know! Mother lost a baby and he was going to be John Holmes, the real and the only one. But one day in those political events she saw you at that orphanage alone and when she knew your name and your date of birth she kicked the floor like a spoilt brat and Father bought you!

"You're not my brother! We're different, we're not brothers, John! You're nothing!"

The older Holmes was ready to slap or even punch Sherlock on the face but John stopped his hand. He moved Mycroft from his place between them, until they were just inches away from each other.

Sherlock's fury disappeared when he noticed John's blue eyes. Those eyes he used to look and know everything just looking at them were red and full of tears. He was probably crying even more than when Mummy died.  
His anger caused something he hadn't want it to happen. Suddenly his face changed, and he tried to touch John, to touch his brother, but he couldn't.

"I'm sorry, John."

A long silence filled the room, John's old room. It still had the blue curtains, his library full of books and over his desk was his Biology book they used to use on their afternoons making experiments. On a frame hanging on the wall was the needlework Mummy made for John. For the John Holmes who died many years ago.  
Mycroft felt the pain that John was feeling.

"We are brothers, John."

Silence fell over them again. The other man couldn't help but try to get close to him. But the recent graduate. Doctor stepped back.

"You said it. Don't you remember, Sherlock? You said the truth. We are not brothers."

"John, I didn't mean it."

"You said it Sherlock. We are different."

"Please, don't go-"

"I'm a doctor, and my country needs me."

"Please John, don't go"

The other man took the rest of his belongings and placed them in his bag and turned around to see the other man, maybe for the last time. He also looked at his room. The blue carpet had some old stains as a result of many experiments made years ago, and his old books 'Alice in the Wonderland' and 'Biology' were placed on his desk. The dark haired man looked like he was almost going to fall to the floor and beg him to stay.

But it was late.  
Words spoken hurted him.  
Those words killed him.  
Sherlock's words killed John Holmes forever.


	3. Nothing More than A Replacement

"When we started this, you told me you've got two brothers."

John closed his eyes, trying to remember that session. It happened the week next to his coming-in after Afghanistan. Certainly the Army took care of him after saving many lives in the front line. With a psychosomatic limp and a wounded shoulder, he needed a therapist. The pension for an ex army doctor wasn't the best, but he could live with that.

"No, i didn't."

He tried to defend himself, but Ella wasn't a recent graduate. She had years of practice and she had been designated to be his therapist. Eventually she knew everything about him. There wasn't any way to hide anything from her.

"Yes you did, John."

Ella is clever. She knows is she pushes him, he won't say a word. She prefers silence. Eventually John will talk after his long moments of silence. But this time, the silence is short, not long. And his gaze fall over his hands. And a vague moment of the past comes to his mind. His hands. Mycroft's hands.

Elizabeth introduced him to Mycroft one morning when he was back from boarding school. It was just for a weekend. He was scared. Scared to meet that tall teenager with a chubby weist and a funny nose. His face was serious but when they shaked their hands, he smiled at him warily.

"Mycroft. He was older than  _us._ "

He was the exact copy of Richard. His blonde hair, his pale skin and even his green eyes. Mycroft was all the opposite of Sherlock.

His therapist wants to know more about him but she's not going to push him. Not if is not necesary. But her suspects are being confirmed. Nothing happened with the older brother.

What affected John was the  _other brother._  Something had happened with the other mysterious brother. The war affected him physically, but something before wounded him mentally forever.

She was almost going to push him, they were getting into the end of the weekly session and she needed him to talk about them when John spoke.

"He'd got me the papers I needed to get into the Army. My father- Richard was once the PM and of course, after graduating in Politics from Cambridge and with the best grades, Mycroft occupied a minor position in the British Government. Well... he loved to say his position was just a desk job in a tiny office in the Parliament, but we all knew he was the right hand or why not, the hand of the current PM."

Ella remained silence. John's voice was still firm when he spoke about them, but she noted that when he was getting there, to the other brother, his voice had reduced until nothing. His glass of water on the table next to him was empty and she wondered if she should get him some more when he spoke again.

"Sherlock was... we were  _close_. Very close. I always felt like we were  _real_  brothers, but we were  _different_. He told me so."

Ella didn't want to push him, but the progress John was making was good. She was almost reaching the point. Maybe it's time to push things.

"What happened with Sherlock?"

John's gaze was now on the window. It was like if he could felt the wind hitting the glasses. The sky was grey, as many London mornings. The noise under them was increasing by any minute that passed. John knew his time was finishing, but he also knew Ella wasn't going to end the session until he talked about him.

"He told me the _truth._ "

She blinked once. Twice.

"What truth, John?"

He bit his lower lip. And his left hand started shaking again. She could see that.

"That I wasn't John Holmes. That I wasn't  _nothing_  to  _him_. That I was just a  _replacement._ "


	4. The 'White Lady'

Sherlock ran. He ran as fast as he could behind that car. He ran for minutes, even miles. But it never stopped. The only thing he could see through the tears in his grey and stormy eyes was John's blonde head. He never turned his face to look at him.

John, his brother was gone. For ever.

A black car was behind him. It was Mycroft. The last thing Sherlock wanted to do in that moment was talk to him. He was his brother, yes. But he knew perfectly well that Mycroft was the one who helped John to enlist to Afghanistan. His minor position in the British Government was bullshit. He was the hand signing every damn paper under the PM's name.

But what hurt him more, was the fact that every one knew, but him. Why?

Why John had tell everyone but him? Why John was leaving him? What has the war he didn't had? And why he told him those lies?

John was more than his brother. They were one.

Mycroft opened the car's door and waited for him to get in. Five minutes. Sherlock stood there, looking at the car losing itself in the road.

"Sherlock."

He didn't get in. He just walked the way back home in the white snow and under the dark sky of that winter afternoon. He was only wearing a pair of dark jeans and an old t-shirt. He was freezing, but he didn't care. The only thing he was thinking of in that moment was John.

* * *

John could hear him screaming his name and running behind the car. He tried very hard to not tell the cabbie to stop and hug his brother- no, Sherlock. But his words killed him. His chest had a terrible pain, even worst than that morning many years ago when he realised he wasn't going to see his parents again.  
The cabbie looked at him through the mirror, and asked to him if he should stop.

"He's calling you, mate."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He couldn't even turn his head to see him. He was too ashamed to look at him.

"No, go faster if you can."

The old man nodded and stepped strongly over the accelerator and a few seconds later, there was only silence. Sherlock stopped screaming his name, and also running.

Tears were still falling over his cheeks. He certainly got shot. And that bullet, with his name on it had wounded his soul. He wasn't John Holmes. Who was he now? A piece of furniture with the name 'Holmes' printed on him? A replacement of a dead still-born-baby?

_Who was he now?_

* * *

Sherlock was back at their flat next day. His landlord asked him for his brother, but he didn't say anything. He couldn't be there and feel alone. It wasn't the same without John. Nothing was going to be the same without him.

And his mind was being tough. He couldn't be there and feel safe. John always made him feel safe. And now he was alone. It wasn't the same without John. Nothing was going to be the same without him. It had been weeks since they last stayed there before they leave to stay with Mother. The whole flat smelled like tea, like John.

In front of him was a picture of them taken years ago by Clara, the very young girl that used to be the maid and after John's arrival she had become like a big sister to them. They were smiling covered with mud from head to toes after a soccer match at school. John taught him how to play it and they were known as the 'golden boys' of their team, being John the most talented for sports.

Despite their height differences, John had an arm around his shoulders and he was smiling warmly and sincerely.

Sherlock could remember that day perfectly. Father and Mother were abroad in some PMs conventions and Clara was the only one there screaming their names when they were close to make a goal. It rained, and soon after the match they were all covered in mud and a very happy John couldn't stop laughing at him and his dark curls which were all wet and dirty.

But Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore. That place was full of John. Full of pictures of him and memories. He went down to the dark streets and stopped at the black door of two-two-one-B of Baker Street. Years ago John and he had been there. It had been his discovery after days of searching, and when they went to the famous museum of his favourite author, they were there and Sherlock promised John they will live there, just like their fictional characters.

He stopped his tears before they fall. John, his brother, was going to a war. He was going to fight against something he didn't need to. But his mind now was at the moment he said things he didn't mean to.

John was his brother. No matter if he was adopted, he never cared. The only thing he regretted in that moment was telling John those things. Those things he never wanted to say. Thing he never felt in his heart.

He needed to forget. Sherlock needed to forget John Holmes just for a night.

And Sherlock walked through the most dangerous alleys in London and met a  _'white lady'_. The man who sold him that white powder told him he could feel better and forget every bad thing of his life. And he wasn't a poor man. Sherlock bought enough cocaine to kill himself that night.

_And maybe erase John Holmes from his mind forever._


	5. John Watson

The night after his departure from the Holmes manor, John found himself packing his last things on a little bag his sister gave to him. They told him he wasn't going to need much clothes since he was going to wear the british army uniform. He couldn't stop those tears falling from his cheeks when he saw his oatmeal jumper, the one Mummy- no, Mrs Holmes knitted for him.

After that tense moment with Sherlock he couldn't even think of Elizabeth or Richard as his parents or Mycroft and Sherlock as his brothers like he always used to think of them. Now he knew he had lived a lie. John knew that the Holmes love was true, but he never knew about the other John. No one told him about the real John Holmes.

Certainly, John never knew if it could have been different if they should have told him about it since the beginning. He remebered the first time he saw Elizabeth. She looked at him with interest and he would lie if he says that he didn't have hope. He really wanted her to be his new mum. But he was a big boy and there was plenty of babies at the orphanage. But she preferred him over the other and he felt special.

Now the pieces were getting together. She didn't want him just only for his name and his date of birth. Elizabeth always wanted him. Sherlock was wrong? He couldn't tell. And that night, he couldn't sleep asking himself how the war was going to be and if someday he returned alive, he would be able to see his brother again.

* * *

Sherlock met the  _white lady_  and her sweet effects once he was back at his flat. The man who sold him the cocaine gave him a needle for free and as a  _'welcome present'_. He was looking at that old picture of John and him smiling when he injected himself for the first time.

And for a few seconds, Sherlock could forget all those memories of joy and happiness with John. And everything was black.

* * *

The sun was up in the sky and now was the moment to leave. John couldn't go back and say bye to Richard as he would liked to do. He ran after Sherlock's recriminations and he knew he was breaking his promise. John promised Elizabeth he was going to take care of the old man and ex PM. But he knew Mycroft was going to do a good also remembered his promise of keeping an eye on Sherlock.

John thought about that in his way to the British Army Building after saying good by to his sister Harry, where he was going to leave his London for maybe a short period of time or not, when he saw the familiar black car parked outside the principal door and a tall and blonde man with an umbrella and a brown envelope on his hands.

* * *

He woke up feeling cold and sick. The last thing Sherlock could remember was his mother's funeral and he looked around for more clues. He was at his flat, and the window was wide open revealing the sunlight falling over the city. And when he thought it was everything his gaze fell over that old picture. And Sherlock remembered John.

_John was gone._

* * *

He could see by his eyes that he had been crying. And he cried too. Mycroft tried to stop Sherlock's screams but he failed. He had a job in which you never could give a place for fail. And he failed. As the older brother he tried to put order, but far away from that John met the truth. And he left.

Richard woke up minutes after John's departure and Mycroft, his first son, was sitting beside his bed looking at the garden covered with snow. He knew he couldn't say the truth to his father. Mummy had just died and not only his health but his spirit were weak and poor. It hadn't been easy to tell him John had gone to Afghanistan. But he assured him as a member of the British Government nothing was going to happen to him.

"I told him you couldn't say good bye."

The shorter man nodded and looked down at the ground. It was hard to look at Mycroft after what happened. John felt like a thief who had been stealing from them all his life. All his existence.

"These has an I.D. You will be always a Holmes, John. Always. You're in Mummy's and Father's will just as me and Sherlock. But I know how you're feeling now-"

"I'm not going to be a Holmes anymore, Mycroft. I don't want anything-"

"Promise me you'll be back."

John took the envelope and looked at the new documents. It had his original name printed on it.

"I promised that to Elizabeth. And I will."

There was a long silence between them until the Captain appeared. It was time to leave.

"Name?"

"John  _Watson_ , sir."

The Captain told him it was time to leave and John followed him, not until turn around and say his last words.

"Take care of Sherlock."

That was the last time Mycroft saw  _John Watson alive._


	6. Forget Me

Mycroft Holmes swore that for some reason fate had taken something with the Holmes family. He had been very busy taking care of his father and his  _'desk job'_ in the British Government.

Richard, his father, had certainly got worst since Mummy's death and even more after John's departure. Mycroft knew if he told him about Sherlock's words he would die in an instant. His hearts wasn't the same and also his mind was affected.

People says that political men are the best liars in the world. Mycroft always believed that and now he felt he was an incredible one and an excellent actor. Every time Richard asked him for John and why he couldn't say bye, he put his best face and assured him John was enlisted and called very quickly and he couldn't say bye. He also promised him he had his best men in the front line to protect John and he also remembered his father the fact John was a Doctor so he wasn't going to be directly fighting.

Mycroft wished with all his heart that all of that could be true. It was all the opposite. John was now John Watson. just a simple man, a Doctor and judging by the situation of the country, the every day news about the British Forces in the front line, he knew his brother was going to do more than taking care of wounded and hurt soldiers.

The expert in politics couldn't protect John. It wasn't fair. Why a random bloke was going to need some undercover soldier to protect him? The truth was Mycroft Holmes didn't occupy a minor position in the British Government. He was the Prime Minister hand. He wrote every single speech the head of the Government read to people. And having such power on his hands, Mycroft couldn't protect John's life.

Mycroft had to trust in John's word. He just had to wait to see him back again.  _Safe._

But with Richard's illness and his poor health Mycroft couldn't leave the manor and all his work was reduced on text messages between him and his PA. A text almost every five minutes to keep the safety of his country and of his people.

And for days, Mycroft Holmes forgot everything about Sherlock.

Anthea, his new assistant knew everything about his young sibling; how, why and where find him when he was missing, a thing that didn't happen so often because Sherlock was living with John and under his watchful eye. But now he was gone. And Mycroft knew his young brother was probably missing his university lectures.

Mycroft also knew Mummy would be terribly upset. But for a moment he allowed himself not think or care about Sherlock. He had a terrible pain in his chest. And the older brother felt like if Sherlock had destroyed their lived as they used to know them.

Sherlock had killed John.

But what Mycroft didn't know was the fact he was going to lose Sherlock. Just as he lost John.

* * *

Afghanistan wasn't anything but all the opposite from what the papers and the media liked to show to people. There wasn't soldiers with clean uniforms. There wasn't happy soldiers fighting for their Queen and for their country. There wasn't just a  _'few'_  wounded and hurt men.

There was  _desolation_.

There was  _pain_.

There was  _homesickness_.

There were more than a few men dying.

They weren't winning that war.

They were  _dying_.

It was full of young and hopeful soldiers and doctors fighting for their Queen and for their country. In his first day, John tried to get used to the place which had very hot days and very cold nights. The medical staff was excellent full of capable people.

John tried not to think in Sherlock but it was hard not to do it until a bomb exploded and he met the hell. By first hand.

* * *

Once the effect had gone, grief invaded his chest like a terrible infection in his system. It had been days, he couldn't tell how many but he hadn't drink or eat or even had a path after his first shot.

The  _'White Lady'_  was exceptional. And every injection was a journey to happiness and comfort. It was the perfect way to forget everything just for a few moments and pretend nothing had happened to him. But once the cocaine was out of his system, the pain was the only thing left.

There were days in which just an injection couldn't do enough. Memories of his childhood were there to torment him. John's figure was there to with him once the effect was gone, like a ghost ready to taunt him.

John used to make him good tea saying it ws the best drug to stay calm and think. But now John wasn't there with him anymore. He was gone, and the only thing left was the cocaine.

* * *

They did never expected an attack at their arrival, but he was ready to work. Fortunately there weren't many hurt men, but it was enough to make him learn how to use a gun. And a grenade. Personal defence. And how to shoot the enemy.

"I'm a  _Doctor_ , not a  _Soldier._  I came here to  _fix_  people not to  _kill_  them-"

"Doctor Watson, we have no choice. Our men are dying, we need you. Our country and our Queen needs you."

And one morning very early and after he took good care of his wounded and injured patients, John was sitting in a van learning how to reload a gun. They were going to invade Afghanistan.

* * *

It was late, very late at night when he injected himself for the third time and he dropped the needle to the floor. Sherlock knew there were a few hours of difference between London and Afghanistan. If his calculations weren't wrong, it was very early there and John was probably removing Soldier's bandages, sewing wounds... John was helping someone's life and he was taking his at the same time.

Sherlock glanced at his left arm. It was pale and it had red marks of the previous injections. For some strange reason the 'White Lady' was taking a long time before he could feel the effects so he decided to walk through the flat or what was of it.

It had been more than a week, he couldn't tell but he stopped in front of John's room and opened the door carefully like if inside was his brother sleeping or reading for another of his university test.

The place was like Sherlock used to remember; neat and clean. The bed was made and there was a frame with an old picture beside the bed over the night table. It was a picture of Mother. She was sitting in his favourite armchair and there was also a vase with her red roses in the back. She looked so happy. Her long curly and dark hair was falling over her left shoulder like a cascade of dark ink and her grey eyes were shinning. Those features reminded him the comments his Father used to tell him. Sherlock was the exact copy of his Mother.

Sherlock cried. He couldn't contain his tears. After Mother's death and John's departure he allowed himself to cry because those tears were heavy on his grey and stormy eyes. He hugged the picture very tightly against his chest and rested his head over John's pillow.

The young Sherlock Holmes cried and cried until the cocaine effect hit him. And John was sitting beside him, stroking his dark curls and crying with him.

"I need you, John."

The blonde man smiled sadly. "But you killed me, Sherlock. I'm not John Holmes anymore."

Sherlock tried to touch his brother but the only thing he felt was nothing.

"You must  _forget_  me, Sherlock."

"I don't know  _how_."

John's soft hands cupped his face and Sherlock could feel his soft thumbs agains his cheekbones. He could also see tears falling from those blue eyes.

"I know you  _will_."

His John disappeared. He vanished on the darkness of the room and Sherlock ran to sofa were he had been injecting himself for days again and again and looked frenetically for the needle. When he found it, he injected himself all the cocaine he had.

"i'm going to forget you, John. I will"

Sherlock fell on the sofa and before he could close his eyes and surrender under the cocaine's power his head turned to watch for the last time that picture. The picture in which he was smiling happily with John.

He thought he could die.

Hell, he was right.


	7. Overdose

Richard was sleeping peacefully after his lunch and his older son was sitting beside him reading the newspapers and glancing once in a while his phone which was in silent mood to not disturb him when Anthea, his PA called him.

She never called him. It was a very strict rule she would never make a call unless it was a matter of life or death. Mycroft ran quietly outside the room and accepted the call. He wasn't ready to hear what she had to say to him.

Sherlock had been found unconscious, almost dead. He had an  _overdose_.

Mycroft Holmes could remember sharing countless cups of tea with his younger brothers in which they used to talk about their lectures at university. He was already a graduate man, but he always enjoyed to listen to his brothers discuss about words and different terminologies. John was attending to School of Medicine at Saint Bart's Hospital and Sherlock was attending at the same place but he was studying Criminology. Certainly, Mycroft wasn't unfamiliar with words.  _'Overdose'_  wasn't an strange concept for him.

He would never know how his facial expression was but his driver took him to Sherlock and John's place very quickly. The last time he had been there was weeks ago when he delivered John the papers he needed to enlist himself in the Army as a Doctor. When Mycroft saw his brother lying naked and almost lifeless he couldn't believe he was the same Sherlock who left the manor just after John's departure weeks ago.

Sherlock was skin and bones. He was dirty, clearly signs that he haven't been eating or cleaning himself. He had a beard and his skin was white, not pale. His left arm had red marks all over it and there was a needle resting on the floor.

The entire place was a mess and there was a horrendous smell. Anthea was already there with who seemed to be a Doctor and he was listening to Sherlock's heart and lungs. He was unconscious and his chest was moving very slowly.

At least he was breathing.

Mycroft couldn't help but let tears fall from his green eyes. His Mummy had just passed away a few weeks ago, less than a month. His brother was gone and he didn't know anything about him. His father was going to leave them soon and now his other brother was killing himself. That was the moment when his PA stroked his hand and for the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes regretted his position as an older brother.

* * *

John hid himself behind a big rock and he took advantage on the windy weather and the dusty surface of the enemy field. He reloaded his rifle with his shaking hands. At the Captain signal he turned around from behind his hideout and shot.

He was breathless. John had just  _killed_  for the first time in his life.

* * *

By orders of his PA, Sherlock was taken to a private clinic under some fake name. The only and last thing Mycroft needed was reading the newspapers with the header  _'Son of the ex PM Holmes found with an overdose'_. He was sitting in the back of his black car with his usual umbrella in his hands. He looked outside the window, trying to think what he was going to say to his Father. Just in a few days it was going to be a month since Mummy's death and they were going to visit her grave. And he doubted his brother was going to be clean until that day.

"It's settled, Sir. Mr Holmes will be hospitalised under the fake name of Vincent Bregman. The Doctor already has strict orders to keep Mr Holmes true identity under the most highest discretions."

Mycroft just nodded and sighed, looking at the grey London sky and wondering what his other brother could be doing in that moment.

* * *

The fire was gone. They had killed the enemy. John took a few steps forward to look at the dead body lying over the Afghan floor. The man was young, in his early twenties. He had tan skin and his eyes were open, showing a pair of very dark and deep eyes. John went down to his knees and removed the enemy's helmet. His hair was dark and curly. Like  _Sherlock's_.

The only thing he did was raise his head to the sunny sky over him and wish he was safe.

John wanted Sherlock to be  _safe_.

* * *

"He had an  _overdose._ "

"May I know which was the  _substance_  involved?"

Mycroft was nervous. He felt the panic on his body, travelling through his veins. But as a political man he was wearing a very good mask over his face.

" _Cocaine_. Mr Holmes injected himself high doses of cocaine."

"Tell me."

The Doctor glanced again at his patient who was lying still unconscious on the bed and at the chart on his hands with the blood test results.

"If we hadn't arrived at the exact moment, he could have  _died_."

The older Holmes was never the same since that moment. He was determined. He wasn't going to loose his brother. He had lost his mother and John. But he wasn't going to lose Sherlock.

For anything in the world.


	8. Bombs

John Watson's performance at the Afghan territory  _sentenced_  him to fight against the enemy. The Captain assured him he was better than the other men who had been training for years while he had learned how to load, shoot, reload and kill just in one day and without any practice.

The Doctor looked down at his hands; they used to be soft and warm. Those hands were medical hands, proper of a Doctor, a man who should look after people's lives. But now those pale hands were covered with dust and blood. He hadn't been healing injured men. He had been killing them.

No matter how much he washed his hands, he always felt them dirty. John Watson MD, had broken his  _Hippocratic Oath_  he made when he got his medical degree. Instead of defend and stand up for human life, he was taking them away.

It was a hot day in Afghanistan. The British uniform felt heavy on his body and the rifle he was carrying with his left arm felt heavier, like if he was carrying thousands of dead bodies over his shoulders. John's blue eyes met the sky over his head which shared the same colour of his iris and he couldn't stop thinking what the Holmes family could be doing.

* * *

The tall and blonde man was seated in a very uncomfortable chair beside his brother's bed. The man resting on the stretcher was peacefully sleeping but it had been days since he had been found almost dead with a high overdose of cocaine in his blood.

Mycroft couldn't make a copy of himself and stay with his father who was close to the end and his brother, who was also close to the end, more than he liked to believe. He was angry. And for the second time in his life he wanted to punch his face.

The political man could perfectly remember the first time he lost control over his little brother and wanted to hit him. Sherlock was saying awful things about John and his parents.

_"What do you think about Mother's 'new furniture'?"_

_Mycroft's smile disappeared from his face. He looked upstairs making himself sure his parents weren't there to listen Sherlock's words. His question sounded cold and his words's election were painfull. He couldn't believe what his brother's mind could think about the poor boy._

_"Don't talk about him like that, Sherlock. He's our brother."_

_The kid shaked his head. "He's not our brother. Mother choose him because his name is John and he was born the same day that John Holmes, our real brother died. And Father agreed with her just for his stupid campaign and please her-"_

_Before Sherlock could continue with his speech, Mycroft grabbed him by his arm with more strenght than necessary and took him out of the house to the garden, not caring the worried look of the maids in their way out. He didn't want to talk to his brother and risk John or his parents to hear them so he guided his brother to the laboratory and closed the door behind him._

_The dark haired boy looked angry, but Mycroft looked hurt. His eyes were sad and he realised it was the first moment he saw his elder brother like that._

_"Sherlock, you don't understand how Mummy and Father suffered since John's death. We all waited for him so badly-"_

_His little brother far away from keep quiet and listen to him, cut him._

_"So now all of you are replacing him with John?"_

_"She lost all her hope to have another child, until she got pregnant again. And it's not my place to tell you this, but if it is necesary to stop you saying those things about John-"_

_Sherlock was lost in his brother's words. He haven't stop to think just a moment how his parents felt when his brother died, before he could be ever alive in this world. He really loved his parents, and with Mycroft's words he opened his eyes._

_"What is it, Mycroft?"_

_The teenager sighed and swallowed before answer. He knew he was going to touch his little brother with his words and he was confident that he was going to change Sherlock's idea about John. And making him understand that this boy wasn't a new forniture to his parents. John, was the brother he always missed and the son his parent's always loved._

_"When Mummy got pregnant with you, there were more risks. You almost died in the deliver Sherlock, but you made it. She fought for you, and you made it"_

Mycroft had to say thing he never wanted his little brother to know. But it worked. Certainly, he wasn't pleased to bring up again those awful memories of his parents crying after the death of his still born brother, but it worked.

Now the only thing Mycroft Holmes wanted was his brother to wake up and be back with his father.

But he was furious and angry. The older Holmes wasn't going to stay away from his father who health was poor and in a very delicate condition, aggravated by the grief in his spirit by Mummy and John's departure to stay with his 'stupid' brother who had been doing the most stupidest things ever. There wasn't another Mycroft to stay with him and play the older brother.

But deeply lost in his thought and concerns blinded him for a moment when Sherlock opened his grey eyes and glanced at the hospital room. Dark curtains were covering the windows from the sunlight and there was one of Mycroft's man outside the door.

"Finally you are awake, Sherlock."

* * *

Just when John looked again at the piece of paper written with his handwriting and closed the envelope which was addressed to Sherlock Holmes a bomb exploded in his camp. There were cries of panic and the alarm rang, bringing him back to reality.

He had a few patients and soldiers to attend that afternoon, but for some strange reason he felt the need of a time for himself. It's not easy to hold a gun, a rifle, a grenade and kill people. They might be the enemy, but they were people. He was being trained to do things he never wanted or wished to do. So he wrote Sherlock a letter, trying to apologize for leaving that way and explaining to him he wasn't angry and he could understand he never meant those words. And he promised him he was going to be back soon, safe.

For some reason, John felt pain in his chest. He felt Sherlock was in danger, and he could feel his brother suffering.

The twenty minutes he took to write that letter was enough for the terrorist to plant the bomb in the medical camp. Most of the Doctors and patients died.

* * *

Sherlock could feel the anger in his brother's voice, face and body movements. Mycroft was holding his umbrella with too much force and his knuckles were white. It wasn't difficult to deduce that.

His long and pale arm was bandaged and he could feel himself skin and bones. He felt weak.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes felt weak and useless.

"You almost  _died_."

"I  _failed_ , then."

Mycroft had to close his eyes for two seconds and breathe to keep himself from hitting his brother to death. Sherlock despite looking defenceless was being as petulant and challenging like before. Not even the drugs and after spending days and days injecting himself had erase that attitude from his young brother.

"You better clean yourself and go home next week. It is an order, Sherlock."

"What for? I can't stay there. I have my flat and-"

"It is Mummy's first  _anniversary_."

* * *

The sky over his head wasn't blue anymore. It was grey and stormy, product of the fire caused by the bomb. Just a few Doctors and two nurses survived and were safe enough to attend the ones who survived and the number of alive wasn't good.

The bomb had destroyed most of the tent that worked as an hospital, also destroying all the medical supplies and equipment. John had only a few things to use to cure and save lives. The Doctor forgot the that white envelope and did his best to stay calm and follow the medical training he had back in London.

But the fire extended and it burn everything. Including that letter addressed to Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

"I'm not going."

And Mycroft slapped Sherlock for the first time in his life.

"Father is  _dying_."


	9. Tears

Mycroft Holmes kept working for the British Government every day of the week, every week of the month and every month of the year. He never needed a promotion. The only thing that filled his mind was the work, the speeches he had to write so the man who was recognised as the Prime Minister could read and the papers he had to sign in his name every day in order to keep the peace of the country and the world.

The older Holmes also kept a very close eye on his young brother through the years after the overdose incident. He was sure he was clean and that he wasn't in posession of any kind of recreational things. And he was completely sure because he had his best men on him and Sherlock's activity always demanded him to be clean.

It wasn't hard to get to Sergeant G. Lestarde a promotion. Just with a flick of his pale fingers and a few papers signed, the man was promoted to the position of Detective Inspector of the New Scotland Yard in London. And everyone won; Mycroft had contolled his brother with his mind occupied in cases and criminals instead of drugs and the new DI had a very good position.

Not like he was only promoted because he was going to be another of the thousands of men keeping an eye on Sherlock Holmes. G. Lestarde was exceptional and certainly the promotion was well deserved. Mycroft just helped doing things more quickly.

The only concern about Sherlock was the drugs. Because when he got himself clean, Richard Holmes died.

"It's good to see you again, son."

A week later after being found naked, unconcious and with a high overdose Sherlock was feeling himself better and clean. He hadn't been taking any drugs, and for orders of his brother he was eating enough food to be healthy for their father. Because every order Mycroft gave to him had a 'do it for Father.' at the end.

Sherlock wasn't a fool and he knew Father didn't have a clue about John's sudden departure to Afghanistan. The man was calm but it was also clear that he was living his last days.

They had never been so close in their lives, not as Mycroft was with him, but Sherlock appreciated the fact his father never pushed him to follow his steps or the destiny of the other men of the family. Richard Holmes gave to him everything he wanted, since a Biology book to a laboratory with all the equipment for him. He had everything.

He smiled to his father and allowed the old man to stroke his hand with his. They were drinking tea in the living room and the man smiled at the sunlight entering through the large windows of the place.

"This reminds me the day John came here. Do you remember, Sherlock?"

"I do remember, father."

Richard took another sip of his tea and smiled at his son. "I just hope he's fine wherever he is now."

"Me too, father."

He needed to act and follow the scrip. Father didn't need to know John had left because of his words. Because the only thing he had done with those words was accelerate the process of John leaving to Afghanistan. Because he knew John could have refused and stay in London with his father, with Richard and him. Mycroft had the enough contacts to make John stay. Sherlock truly regretted saying those words. With all his heart.

* * *

" _Another_  letter, Watson?"

John nodded to the young soldier in front of him and smiled, giving the letter a last look. He had been sending letters to Mycroft, Richard and Sherlock almost everyweek when he had enough time to have a sit and write. He never wrote about the bombs, the dead boys or the lack of medical supplies. They didn't need to know he was holding riffles instead of bands, gauze, and medicines. But he knew Mycroft knew all about that.

Until that moment, he never got a letter. John even asked the British postal service in their camp if something was happening with their letters.

Nothing wrong was happening with the postal service.

* * *

Anthea looked at the three white envelopes addressed to the Holmes brother and Richard.

_**'You've got three more letters. A'** _

_**'Do as always. MH.'** _

She placed them in the folder his boss used to kept them and then she locked the safe.

Mycroft always opened the letters John wrote for him. He kept the ones for his father and for Sherlock closed and never read them. He only read one, that was received the same week Sherlock was found uncounciouss with an overdose.

He wasn't amazed after read John's words in that letter. He only read it once, but he stills remembering a few words.

_"Hope you're attending to your classes, Sherlock. Remember you only have two more exams to finish university and get your degree._

_"Stay safe. It may sound weird, but I have a strange feeling in my chest. Are you OK, aren't you?_

_I know you never meant those words. I'm sorry for not stopping that car and tell you how sorry I was._

_I'm sorry, Sherlock."_

* * *

The green grass was shinning and the red roses were growing up. Sherlock had cut them all when his mother died. And now they two brothers and his father were having lunch together in the garden.

The maid placed the food over the table and served them their drinks. Richard smiled at her politely and started eating, looking at their sons with nostalgia in his eyes.

People usually say that one knows when it's his time. Richard knew it. He knew he was living that day, just as Elizabeth knew.

And a moment later, a nurse was helping the ex PM to his bed when he asked their sons to be with him. It was time.

"I'm very proud of both of you. You are making your own way in this world that is so different from my days -He took their hands with his and sighed tiredly- I just wish John could be here."

Sherlock had to keep his semblant and not let his father know what happened. He knew it was so unfair to let him go like that, cheated by their own sons. He wished he could have say the truth. But he couldn't.

Mycroft could feel his phone vibrating against the pocket of his jacket. He ignored should have known better.

"John is perfect, father. My men are taking care of him and the situation is favourable to our side-"

"I have been the PM of this country years ago, Mycroft. I may be very ill and tired but I know what is going on there. Don't let him die."

Sherlock clenched his jaw and made his way to the window. The situation was overstepping him and he needed it again. Suddenly the urge of the cocaine in his system was screaming inside him. He needed just one shot. A little one.

The dark haired young man could hear his father mumbling something to his brother and when he turned around he was gone.

* * *

His funeral was just like Sherlock expected. Full of people he never knew, high security over them, press, some important personalities of the political world, and just them.

"My sources will inform John-"

"You don't have any source in Afghanistan, Mycroft. Why do you keep telling me those lies? I'm not Father. You thought you were fooling him, but he knew. He knew everything."

Mycroft's face was serious. The older brother kept his eyes on his brother, he wasn't going to show any sign of defeat.

"You think you have all the power in your hand. Just because you can rise a finger and the entire country will follow it, it doesn't mean you can have everything under your control. You don't have any man looking after John. And you're not sending my letters. I know you have someone in the postal service who stops my letters. John is dead and you know it."

He just ran. He didn't are the flashes of the press over his pale face. But once he was back at the streets he visited the place he wanted to go since he left the hospital.

And the 'White Lady' was there for him.

* * *

A cargo with medical supplies arrived very early that morning. The boxes had the stamp of the Queen and all the Medical personnel were smiling of happiness.

The situation was getting worst day after day and the lack of supplies was something John had never been trained or warned beforehand. So all of them had to improvise with clothes and sheets for bandages and another things like alchohol, paracetamol, painkillers and medicines were like gold to them.

John was sewing a young man wound in his back that day. The man in charge of the cargo had also brought them a few old papers and magazines.

"Look, 'Ex PM Richard Holmes dies'"

John dropped the cotton he was using to clean the man's wound and took the papers off his hand. There was an old picture of Richard of his days as the PM with Elizabeth by his right side.

More pictures were printed on several pages of the newspaper. Pictures of Mycroft and Sherlock getting down from a black car, famous people and so on.

John couldn't stop those tears falling from his blue eyes.


	10. Damaged Brothers

If you ask him, he will say he did expect it. He had it coming and no matter how hard he tried to not think about it, eventually that day came.

And John Watson became the Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers of the Royal Army.

He tried to look proud, satisfied, like a Soldier should look when he's being promoted,when his work is being recognised and valorated.

But he wasn't. He knew that medal hanging in his left part of his chest meant many lives he had taken with his hands that carried guns. Hands that supposed to fix people, not kill them.

And once he was in charge of the the Fusiliers and a considerable number of young and hopeful men, the day of the big fight came.

It was inevitable.

Maybe if you ask him now, he will say he met hell and all its demons.

* * *

His dark and curl hair was falling over his forehead when he snapped his little magnifier. Under his eyes was a dead body, woman, clear signs of struggle and several bruises on her throat. Her wedding ring had been removed and taken. His veredict: a jealous lover. But the new DI of the Scotland Yard thought all the opposite.

Sherlock Holmes didn't need to be clever to know the new man in charge of the Criminal Division have been promoted not only because of his talent to see, but not observe, and because he was a very promising man. He could smell Mycroft's fingers behind that promotion and the fact that he was being contacted by him frecuently only confirmed his suspicions.

He tried. He tried with all his strenght if he still had some. But the White Lady was still there, in the deepest of the pocket of his coat claiming to be used, and trying to seduce him with her charms.

The cocaine charms consisted in short or some time long journeys to a world in which everything was possible and in which he was invincible. Nothing could cause him any harm or pain. Sherlock could fly and even observe things he wasn't able to when he wasn't high.

John was something he forgot everytime he injected himself. There were days in which he couldn't remember nothing about his brother. He couldn't even remember his face, but when the cocaine was off his system, that ghost was there to torment him and cause the pain he forgot he could feel.

Sherlock stop writing long ago when he knew he didn't have any words, or any more things to tell John.

And after their father's death, Mycroft stopped talking about John. Sherlock didn't want lies or false promises.

* * *

He knew there will be lives taken by both parties. It was risky, but he promised to himself he wasn't going to lose any more. All his troops, all his men were going to be back at the camp, and mostly important, back home, all together in one piece.

The warm Afghan weather was causing them pain, and their uniforms felt heavy over their bodies. His helmet had a red cross and somehow, his soldiers respected him more than any other soldier would respect at his Captain in charge.

John felt shy sometimes. They were good men, very young, full of hope and proud. They respected him in a way that some had promised him they were willing to give their own lives forhim and he wanted to cry. Because he was alone. He was the good Doctor, the one that saved more than one hundred lifes and the one that always tried to save their arm, legs and bodies from being amputated.

The only letters he had were from Harry. He found after years and years, with Sherlock's help. John told him about her and when they were old enough to travel alone on busy London, they arrived at an old building and knocked the door.

He could remember he was nervous and his hand was glued to the taller teenager. Sherlock assured him everything was going to be OK, that they were at the right place and he wasn't going to tell anything to their parents. A blonde woman opened the door and her eyes widened when she saw him. They didn't need words. A big hug joined two siblings, a brother and a sister. Together.

And both boys visited her every week when Clara, the young maid that used to spoil them as kids needed to do the shopping for the estate. And before Harriet could tell him, Sherlock knew they were attracted. But it wasn't strange for John when after a few months when his sister told him about her sexuality, she also told him about her relationship with Clara.

"You knew it."

"John, you see but you don't observe."

The young Captain smiled with grief at that old memory when he felt the pain in his left shoulder and collapsed on the floor.

* * *

His PA opened the door without knocking, an unusual manner of her. And he knew something was wrong. Sherlock had been found almost dead, in a street alley.

According to Anthea, DI Lestrade found him lying almost dead, breathless, overdosed. When the older Holmes arrived at the scene while his brother was being taken care of and being shipped in an ambulance to the nearest hospital, he could see what Sherlock have been doing when he fooled his security guards.

A homeless man told them that Sherlock have been living in that alley for days, not eating or drinking anything, but injecting himself everytime he could. He also told them about a fight he had with a drug dealer and how he used two injections of cocaine before falling over the wet floor hitting his head and having convulsions.

Once again, he managed to keep the press away from them. The son of the ex PM being found overdosed was a good headline for any paper.

But Mycroft Holmes wasn't prepared for what was coming next.

* * *

Every breath hurt him like hell. His lungs were going to collapse soon and the tast of blood and dust in his mouth was burning him. John couldn't see too much. He could only recognise a yung soldier, Smith maybe, turning his body and screaming for help.

The dark haired soldier removed his helmet and moved it over his face, trying to give him some air. The hot weather wasn't helping and behind John's eyes, full of tears, he saw Sherlock.

He was wearing a grey jumper and the blue scarf their mother knitted before she died. The tall man kneeled beside him and took his left hand, stroking every callus from carrying and using different gun machines.

"I'm sorry-"

"Hush, you are going to be OK, John."

"But- Sher- Sherlock-"

"Everything is going to be fine."

John closed his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock had two heart attacks in his way to the hospital.

The Doctor warned Mycroft. The cocaine had been the detonating element that almost took Sherlock's life. He didn't turned around and said all he needed to say, and al the older Holmes needed to know.

Or he was going to get himself clean, or he was going to die after the next injection of cocaine.

With the same mask he used to cover his face from his feelings in his work, Mycroft nodded and turned round. He collapsed inside his black car and allowed himself to cry.

* * *

The Soldier managed to work out a stretcher using their uniforms and carried his body to the medical camp. Most of the Doctors and nurses couldn't believe what they were seeing and witnessing. The soldiers, strong men they were, cried in silence.

John Watson wasn't going to die, the other doctors promised, but it was hard to believe promises when all they could see was a trail painted with red blood over the dusty Afghan floor.

* * *

Two days after, he opened his grey eyes. And he was greeted by the inquisitive look of his brother's green eyes. His black umbrella was tapping the white and cold floor of the hospital. He turned around and frowned at the sight of the machine monitoring his heart.

He was informed that Sherlock needed to be calm and the Doctor also warned him about his condition. He had a concussion and it was possible that he could have some damage. But to know that they needed him to be awake.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Talk. Why, Sherlock?"

He didn't answer. But his gaze was still over his brother.

"Is it because of John?-"

"John? Who's John?"

* * *

When he opened his blue eyes he met the grey and and cold ceiling over him. He tried to move but soon enough his hand was being stroked by one of the Doctors of the camp.

John frowned when he saw a huge bandage covering his left shoulder. He couldn't move, and he couldn't feel it.

"What happened?."

"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson-"

"Tell me."

"You have been shot in action. The soldiers carried you here. You... You lost too much blood and the bullet was deep buried in your muscles. We could save the scapula, though. I'm sorry."


	11. 221B Baker Street

_"Afghanistan or Iraq?"_

_"I-I'm sorry, what-?"_

_"I said Afghanistan or Iraq."_

_And his blue eyes met Sherlock's grey ones. John felt something he hadn't felt in a very long time._

_Hope._

* * *

John looked at him puzzled. He was aware about his brother- Sherlock's deductive skills, but it had been years since their last meeting, since their last moment together. And now, being face to face after all those years, all the pain and loss between them, the ex Army Doctor couldn't understand why he was acting like they were strangers.

"Afghanistan, sorry how do you-"

A young and pretty woman came inside the laboratory, carrying a hot mug filled with coffee and a very shy expression. Without saying a word, she handed him the mug, just next to John, who looked at the frowned look in the taller man's face when she raised her head to look at him.

"What happened with the lipstick?"

She shrugged and smiled. "It wasn't working for me."

"Really? It was a big improvement. Your mouth looks so... small now."

John turned around and looked at the furious blush in her cheeks and she smiled a bit. "Okay."

Everything was so new. He couldn't remember his brother- Sherlock saying such a compliment, if you want to take that observation about lipstick as a compliment, to any woman, not even their mother- Elizabeth.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for hours on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

The violin. Of course he remembered about the violin. Of course John Watson remembered the long sessions after lunch, upstairs in Elizabeth's blue room in which the two of them used to play duets together. Sherlock with the violin and himself with the clarinet. And sometimes, when she could or when she wasn't attending to those scheduled lunches or breakfast with the Queen or anyone of the Royalty, she was there playing the piano for them. Teaching them her favourite pieces and reading them about famous musicians and composers.

"Are you—? You told him about me?"

"Not a word." Replied Mike.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

Something wrong was going on. He could feel it. Sense it. Sherlock wasn't acting like he always did. He looked lifeless, almost like a porcelain doll with his pale skin. Also his physical appearance had changed a lot. He wasn't that slim and unworried young man he remembered, the one who loved to use dark jeans and baggy jumpers like him.

Sherlock was now a serious man, with tailored suits according to his rich life of course and a lifeless look in his face. His grey eyes were pale, not filled with the promising dreams and ideas he used to have when they were young men together. Something had changed him.

And that made him forget John.

That made him erase John from his life.

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just out to lunch with an old friend. Clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Not a difficult leap."

John couldn't help but look how his brother- Sherlock was wearing a blue scarf. The same blue scarf Elizabeth knitted for him before she died. It had the same knitting style of his jumper. The same one he kept all those years and the same one that made him cry every time he wore it.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?"

"Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary-"

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?"

"We've just met and we're going to look for a flat? We don't know anything about each other, I don't even know your name-"

Lie. He asked himself why he needed to lie like that. Why he couldn't just hug him and tell him everything was OK. That he was sorry for running away from him to a War that almost killed him and now the only thing he wanted was being the brothers they once were.

Because they were brothers. No matter what papers or surnames said, or what a judge in a wig could say, they were brothers. They grew up together. They shared more than a sibling relationship.

And being just as close as they were but far away at the same time was hurting him.

"I know you're an army doctor, recently invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's concerned about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him - possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife - and I know your therapist thinks your limp's at least partially psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid. Enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. See you tomorrow at five. Afternoon!"

And he ran. He ran away from him just as he ran away many years ago.

John Watson couldn't wait till next day.

* * *

He looked at it. It had lost some of the original colour, it wasn't 'porridge' coloured as he used to be before. It was grey now. John let a hand ran over the different patterns of the knitted jumper and swallowed his own tears. The same patterns and knitting style Sherlock's scarf had.

And against his own thoughts, John decided to wear it for the first time in years and meet his brother again.

His leg hurt, God knew how it hurt but he finally arrived at destiny and he couldn't help but knock the dark door amazed. He couldn't belive it and he realized that fact once he looked at the cafe next door. It was the same place he visited once with the dark haired man many years ago in their trips to London.

Sherlock surprised John with a black door and a three numbers and a b letter on it. Next to the black door was a little coffee shop managed by an old lady wearing a violet dress and a open and warm smile. Both teenagers looked at the poster glued on the window of the place. The old lady was renting rooms to 'responsible' people. It had two rooms, a sitting room with a fireplace, a kitchen and a bathroom. John couldn't help but burst out laughing at the description of the place and the number on the door. It was the same as the fictional stories they read since they were kids. Sherlock didn't shared the same laugh as his brother. With a very determined voice, Sherlock assured John one day, they were going to live there together.

Destiny was playing cards with their lives on stake. He bit his lip and suppressed his tears when Sherlock arrived.

Act. John Watson needed to act and follow the events.

"Ah, Mister Holmes."

"Sherlock, please."

They shook their hands for the first time and John had to hide his pain. He even wondered if Sherlock, being the clever man he was, could deduce the pain in his chest.

He prayed to the God up above he couldn't.

"Well this is a prime spot. Must be expensive."

"Mrs. Hudson the landlady is giving me a special deal. She owes me a favour. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her."

"So you stopped her husband from being executed?"

"Oh, no. I ensured it."

Of course he looked surprised. He remembered Sherlock always trying to get the Police attention sneaking on crime scenes when they were in the middle of the way to uni, but he wasn't expecting him working in the States. Not even ensuring death sentences. But John wanted to ask him thousands of questions when the owner of the rooms opened the door and let both men in.

John didn't expect him to help him through the stairs. He had a limp, he wasn't invalid. He wasn't moving himself in an wheelchair. He could manage. And that's what Sherlock saw when he ran the stairs and waited for him at the top.

It was the first time they were inside, well, at least together. It was clear Sherlock had see it before since he talked about it like if he knew the place the day before when they met.

The place was cosy and it looked familiar. Familiar because he was there with Sherlock. He was with his brother, the one he grew up with and now he was determined to stay with him, beside him, though he knew they weren't going to recover all the time lost.

All the feelings between them weren't going to born naturally again. Sherlock wasn't going to be on the roof to look at the stars like they used to do before when they were teenagers. But being as close as he could be from him, John was happy.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice, indeed."

"Yes, yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely."

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned up-"

"So I went straight ahead and moved in-"

"Oh. So this is all, uh..."

"Obviously, I can straighten things up..."

Both men shared a blush in their cheeks when they realized their words. The air started to feel awkward and John wanted to disappear. He can sense that feeling in the other man, who started to put some order in his things when the landlady appeared.

"What do you think, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

The old lady looked at him, expectantly for an answer and he couldn't help but answer her question with his most neutral face.

"Of course we'll be needing two."

"Oh don't worry, there's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones."

John looked at Sherlock for a moment, trying to find an answer or a small gesture, but the other man was just untying his scarf and turning on his little computer. He could see Mrs. Hudson knew Sherlock from the past, and that little suggestion made John wonder more things about the brother, about the man he hadn't seen in years.

But his leg wasn't leaving him alone, so he fall with a tired sigh on the armchair next to him.

"Oh I er, looked you up on the internet last night."

"Anything interesting?"

"Found your website. 'The Science of Deduction'"

"What did you think?"

Despite the proud look in Sherlock's face, John gave him a look. The same look he used when his clever brother could deduce something, work out something but couldn't tell how he knew it.

_"Mycroft is putting on weight again, John."_

_"How do you know? He has been eating healthy food and running every morning in the garden."_

_"I know, but he's putting weight on again, I just know it."_

_"How can you know something but explain how-"_

_"I don't know. But trust me, he's fatter!"_

_The two fifteen year old boys couldn't stop discussing about Mycroft and his weight till Sherlock obliged him to step on a weight balance._

_And Sherlock was right._

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes, and I can read your military career by your face and your leg and your brothers drinking habits by your mobile phone."

"How?"

John wanted to run. He couldn't stand those grey eyes on him. He knew Sherlock was going to say something about their past at any moment. But what John couldn't tell, was the fact if he was going to be strong enough to face reality.

"What about these three suicides then Sherlock, thought that'd be right up your street-"

"Four. It's been a fourth."

The red and blue lights of a police car were getting inside the place. And then, John felt something strange inside him.

Something growing inside his chest, and he knew he won't be able to stop it.

"Where?"

An man, probably in his late thirties, early forties came inside the flat like if he were the owner of the place and looked at Sherlock straight at his eyes.

"Lauriston Gardens-"

"Why come to me now?"

John frowned. Sherlock had an air of superiority he never meet before. He was petulant sometimes, or even arrogant, yes. But he never believed himself as someone superior to the others.

"There's a note."

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

"He doesn't want to work with me."

This last line was addressed to John, when the other man, who were clearly part of the Police force rolled his eyes.

"You know he can't be your assistant-"

"But I need an assistant."

"Are you coming, then?"

"I'll go after you. Text me the address."

The silence of the place, just only interrupted by Mrs. Hudson's short heels on the floor suddenly died when the dark haired man jumped in the air with his hands up like a kid in Christmas.

John couldn't do anything but keep himself silent looking how that man who seemed to be ignoring a lot of things between them took his coat and scarf and asked his landlady to cook something.

"John, make yourself at home! Don't wait up!"

A promise of a tea and biscuits from his future landlady were enough to calm him down, to make him think or at least try to think why Sherlock was acting like that. Like they were completely strangers.

And so far, Mycroft haven't been there. And John remembered how the older Holmes was behind them when they first moved together before starting uni. Using his 'desk job' in the British Government he tried to get them a nice flat in the best and exclusive part of then city and fight against him was something he couldn't have done if Sherlock wasn't there with him.

Periodic visits for tea were just an excuse of his to see if his little brothers were fine, eating properly and living properly like the Holmes they were.

John didn't know if it was better not to meet Mycroft when Sherlock reappeared in the room.

"You're a doctor. In fact you're an army doctor."

"Yes."

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths."

Of course he had seen them. Too much pain, work, tears and blood. Those years were the hell of his life. He met Hell and all its Demons. John looked for redemption, he wanted to forget that life he believed didn't exist.

But he came back alive. And this time, he wasn't going to waste his new chance.

"Well. Yes."

"Bit of trouble too I bet."

"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Wanna see some more?"

"Oh god yes."

And both brothers ran through the stairs, feeling the excitement running in their veins. They didn't share the same blood. They shared something stronger.

_Brotherhood._


	12. Mycroft Holmes

_"You're a doctor. In fact you're an army doctor."_

_"Yes."_

_"Any good?"_

_"Very good."_

_"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths."_

_Of course he had seen them. Too much pain, work, tears and blood. Those years were the hell of his life. He met Hell and all its Demons. John looked for redemption, he wanted to forget that life he believed didn't exist._

_But he came back alive. And this time, he wasn't going to waste his new chance._

_"Well. Yes."_

_"Bit of trouble too I bet."_

_"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."_

_"Wanna see some more?"_

_"Oh god yes."_

_And both brothers ran thorough the stairs, feeling the excitement running in their veins. They didn't share the same blood. They shared something stronger._

_Brotherhood._

* * *

And when John climbed into that cab with Sherlock Holmes he decided it was for the best to play along. His brother, Sherlock, had changed a lot. He wasn't that young man he used to remember. He looked sad, dark. Even when he had a huge smile on his face, John knew Sherlock was a sad man. He could see that just looking into his grey and stormy eyes. He always did it. And with one look, John could always see what was happening inside his brother's mind.

_"What happened, Sher?"_

_"Nothing."_

_"I can see it, Sher. What happened?"_

_"Mother won't get me a skull this Christmas."_

_Just looking into a fourteen year old Sherlock, John knew how disappointed his brother was._

His journey to the past was interrupted by the main character of his dreams.

"Okay, you've got questions."

And John played along.

"Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective..."

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

John could see the little smirk forming in Sherlock's face. If he was lucky enough, the detective wasn't going to discover the hint of 'I already know you' on his voice.

"I'm, a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does it mean?"

"It means whenever the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs."

John smiled a bit, trying to break the ice, as they say. But Sherlock looked at him with a look. A look John never saw until that moment. _  
_

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room, said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists, you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic, wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq."

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother. Your phone, it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches, not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."

Sherlock flipped his mobile, that mobile phone Harry gave to him when he returned to London a few weeks ago. She said I'll call you and it had been days since he last saw her.

"The engraving?"

"Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then, six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left  _him_ , he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted to get rid of it, he left  _her_. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you  _don't_  like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

Because Sherlock was right. And wrong. Wrong, because he could never see Clara as a woman, when Clara was the woman who shared with them so many moments when he was a child. When they were children. Because Clara, the same young maid who used to make them breakfast and help them to haunt frogs for experiments was the same Clara who one day, after going with them to London to secretly visit Harry, fell in love with her. And he was right, because his sister, his biological sister was a drinker.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection, tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right."

" _I_  was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

And a very long and awkward silence invaded the atmosphere. Until John said what he always said after a good deduction.

"That was amazing."

"You think so?"

Sherlock turned around to face him. And he smiled and John could see his grey eyes shinning again. Just like when they were kids.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was  _quite_... extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off!"

And they laughed. They shared a good laugh when the cab stopped and then both men were walking together, side by side on a cold and dark street.

Later, Sherlock wanted to know if he had been wrong, even when he was confident enough to say he was right.

"Well, Harry is a drinker. Harry and Clara are divorcing. Harry's short for Harriet-"

"Sister! You have a sister!"

"Yes, I only have a sister." Replied the Army Doctor with a hint of sadness on his voice but then he could see they were approaching a crime scene with policemen running from one place to another, the whole street was closed to the public but yet his brother, Sherlock Holmes, was walking on it with him like if he were the owner of it. And John felt that familiar sensation again. That sensation, that feeling of walking besides Sherlock. The security Sherlock always provided him with was priceless.

Because John was always the awkward one. The short one of them, who usually looked at the floor when he was walking. And Sherlock, he was all the opposite. He always looked up when he was walking, with his chin up. And when they were young, Sherlock was always there for him.

Like that night.

But that night, John met the new Sherlock.

This new Sherlock was careless towards people. He was still that secure man, with his chin up on the air. But his new air of superiority was something that made him look dark. And John met this by first hand when he noted how all the policemen, the forensic team and even the same DI Lestrade looked at him with that look. That look which expressed fear, distance and hatred.

For some reason, people disliked Sherlock.

This wasn't new. But when they were at University, people used to talk with Sherlock and he was used to talk to them. Not like Sherlock was the most popular guy, no. But people certainly had some respect and some friendly feelings towards him.

Now, people looked at him with a very weird look.

And John could feel the same sadness Sherlock felt.

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

Sally Donovan, as Sherlock introduced her to him, said the most painful words he could have ever hear since he was back from Afghanistan. Because he didn't know anything about Sherlock Holmes. About this Sherlock Holmes. Everyone, not talking but looking at him with pity were telling him the same. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes. All of them.

Even this woman who had been the victim of the detective's deductions, told John to stay away from Sherlock.

And something told John to stay with him.

Because John Watson wasn't going to give up. He was going to be by Sherlock's side no matter how hard it could be. And no matter how hurtful it was for his heart. Because for some reason, Sherlock Holmes didn't remember John at all.

* * *

He realized something was wrong when he passed two phones, two different ringing phones. And the third caught his full attention. A voice, a male voice John swore he knew by heart was talking to him and giving him indications. He could see the man speaking had full power judging by his indication and how the famous CCTV cameras around the city were moving towards him. And then a black car was parking by the side of the street and a man in black suit gestured him to get in.

And for some reason, John decided to take a leap of faith and meet this man.

A very pretty woman, who was sitting beside him, was deeply concentrated on the mobile phone on her manicured hands and John couldn't help but ask himself if he knew her. He was sure he saw that woman before, in some place. But he couldn't remember. She was certainly pretty, and he didn't hesitate asking her name, but she gave him a fake one.

"I'm John."

"I know."

"Any point asking where I am going?"

"Not at all, John. But you'll see."

After a few minutes, the car stopped inside a deserted warehouse. It was perfectly clean to be deserted and John saw a figure. A tall man was standing a few meters away from where the car was parked. He was wearing a dark suit and he had an umbrella on his right hand. John couldn't clearly see who that man was until he walked a few steps and his heart stopped beating.

"Have a sit, John."

He was Mycroft Holmes.


	13. Deleted

_He realized something was wrong when he passed two phones, two different ringing phones. And the third caught his full attention. A voice, a male voice John swore he knew by heart was talking to him and giving him indications. He could see the man speaking had full power judging by his indication and how the famous CCTV cameras around the city were moving towards him. And then a black car was parking by the side of the street and a man in black suit gestured him to get in._

_And for some reason, John decided to take a leap of faith and meet this man._

_A very pretty woman, who was sitting beside him, was deeply concentrated on the mobile phone on her manicured hands and John couldn't help but ask himself if he knew her. He was sure he saw that woman before, in some place. But he couldn't remember. She was certainly pretty, and he didn't hesitate asking her name, but she gave him a fake one._

_"I'm John."_

_"I know."_

_"Any point asking where I am going?"_

_"Not at all, John. But you'll see."_

_After a few minutes, the car stopped inside a deserted warehouse. It was perfectly clean to be deserted and John saw a figure. A tall man was standing a few meters away from where the car was parked. He was wearing a dark suit and he had an umbrella on his right hand. John couldn't clearly see who that man was until he walked a few steps and his heart stopped beating._

_"Have a sit, John."_

_He was Mycroft Holmes._

* * *

John looked at that tall man. He was wearing a tailored suit. His hair was perfectly combed and he had an umbrella on his right and. He was almost supporting his own weight on that umbrella. John knew this man. He knew his face, and he knew that umbrella.

That man, was his older brother.

That mas was Mycroft Holmes.

And something told John he was going to play along, just like he did with Sherlock. Because for some reason, the Army doctor knew someone or something had happened to the Holmes brothers. Sherlock couldn't recognize him and it seemed like Mycroft was the same case as his young sibling.

"I-I have a phone, you know. You could just... phone me."

That was such an innocent line. Such an innocent comment. But it wasn't. It wasn't because John knew, John experienced loneliness in Afghanistan. His letter were never read, he never got any correspondence from any of his two brothers and he knew something wrong had happened. No one phoned him, or at least sent him a letter telling him about his father's death.

But John wasn't angry for that, no. John was angry because none of them seemed to recognize him.

The ten steps from the car till he met Mycroft Holmes eyes again were as painful as hell. His walking was bad, and his leg was hurting him. His walking stick was making the loudest sound ever. And both men felt weak.

Weak because Mycroft had expected this moment for so long. And John too. The last time they saw each other seemed to have happened ages and ages ago. John promised he was going to be back, alive. Because he had promised that to Mummy. And he had also promised that he was going to take care of Sherlock.

And Mycroft felt so guilty. He felt so guilty when he saw his brother like that. He could see his left hand shaking, his limp and even his wounded shoulder. And with a quick eye movement, he understood John. He had been shot on his left shoulder. He was left handed. John was a surgeon. War killed John. War killed John's spirit and somehow, the war only returned a walking dead body. Because that is what John Watson was. John Watson was nothing more than a walking dead body, who returned to the world of the living ones eager to get a second chance.

The older brother had knowledge of every step Sherlock had over London. He didn't want to repeat his mistakes. Because he didn't need, he didn't want to find his brother overdosed. He promised John he was going to take care of Sherlock. And somehow he succeeded.

More or less.

"When it comes to avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

Mycroft smiled at him with his chin up. And John couldn't believe what he was witnessing, what he was being part of. Was this a revenge? A revenge because he took the place of an unborn baby also named John? Have the Holmes brothers reaping that hatred feeling against him? Because the man part of the British Government was laughing, mocking him. John could feel it.

"I don't want to sit down."

He looked into his brother's eyes. And as with Sherlock, John could see sadness. Mycroft had the same green eyes of their father Richard Holmes, and they used to shine. John remembered Mycroft's green eyes shinning every time they were watching the news and something good had happened to the country. And he knew his brother's green eyes were shinning because he had been behind that.

But Mycroft's eyes only expressed sadness.

"You don't see very afraid."

"And yo don't seem very frightening."

He laughed. He laughed in John's face.

And John fought against his own tears.

"Oh, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

John couldn't stand it anymore. He wasn't going to play along with Mycroft. He was done.

"Why, Mycroft?"

The older Holmes let a tear fall from his green eyes and his umbrella met the floor. His hands were shaking and his legs were weak. John took his hand, just like he did when they first met and shook it. It brought Mycroft back to reality and then both brothers met in a very deep and warm hug. There were too many things to talk about, too many things to explain, but John couldn't care less. He had been craving that hug for so long that he felt that seeing his older brother again was going to be impossible.

"John... I missed you so much. I...-I thought I wasn't going to see you again."

The taller man stroked his brother's shoulders and removed the tears falling from his blue eyes. He wanted to apologize. To say how sorry he had felt and how sorry he was for all the things John had to be part of. Because John didn't need to go to that war. He wanted to help, yes. He wanted to kill people, no. But even having all the power on his hands, Mycroft couldn't prevent what happened to his brother. He lied to his father telling him he had men protecting John, that he was nothing more than a doctor. But the truth was, the truth is that John was John Watson, an orphan young man who had to learn how to reload a gun, how to throw a grenade and how to kill people.

And Mycroft felt guilty.

"I should have protected you, John. But I couldn't. Forgive me, John. I'm so sorry-"

"It's all fine, Myc. I was John Watson, there wasn't anything you could do. You occupy a minor position, remember? You couldn't send more soldiers. I know, I understand. Don't cry, Myc."

John's words were so sincere and full of sentiment.

"I'm back, remember I promised? I'm back."

Sherlock. Mycroft promised him he was going to take care of Sherlock and yet, he didn't know how he was going to tell John. How he was going to tell John that Sherlock couldn't remember him because he killed his memories with cocaine.

The older brother had all the power on his hands, he could keep millions of people safe everyday, but yet he couldn't keep his brother safe from himself and from the pain that was aching his heart when John left.

* * *

The dark figure ran and ran around Lauriston Gardens. He had to find that skip with the pink lady's suitcase, he had to. He was the great detective Sherlock Holmes. And when he did, he ran back to Baker Street.

Three patches. He needed three to think. Because for some reason, this John Watson man was a new mystery. He was a puzzle screaming at him to be solved.

Military man, wounded, psychosomatic limp, with family problems- a sister.

But there was more. Yes, of course there was more.

Because Sherlock Holmes felt a strange attraction to this man, and if this man represented a puzzle, he was definitely going to solve it.

The detective took his phone and sent a text.

* * *

**Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH**

"It's Sherlock, how did he- well, there isn't any point asking. He's Sherlock. Myc-"

"John, I need you to do as I say. There is something about Sherlock you should know."

The doctor ignored his brother's text and looked at Mycroft. His green eyes were darker now. And finally he was going to know why Sherlock had been ignoring him for so long, why Sherlock seemed to not recognize him.

"Why doesn't he recognize me, Myc? What happened? He looks so different, I know he's a man now, but I- what happened, Mycroft?"

"Since mummy died, Sherlock had been under a strong depression. It got worst when you left. He... he got involved with certain substances and I could get him clean before father died. After that, it got worst, John. It was hard to keep an eye on him when he knew all my methods. But after father's funeral I found him overdosed. He almost died and there is when DI Lestrade appeared-"

"Overd- What are you talking about, Mycroft?"

"I could move some of my contacts to get him a promotion. I needed someone on the police to perform the drug bust and provide Sherlock, shall we say, with cases to keep his mind occupied-"

"Drug bust? what-"

"There was a second time, John. He spent days living on a street alley injecting himself. Dose after dose. And when Lestrade found him, he had two heart attacks-"

"What happened with Sherlock, Mycroft?"

"The doctors couldn't explain it, but they believe Sherlock deleted that part of his memory which was haunting him with the overdose of cocaine. He found on cocaine a way to forget all his problems, and you, John. All the times I found him in such state, he always murmured the same things, that you were there with him but you vanished in the darkness. He told me cocaine helped him to delete you. And after the last overdose he had, when he woke up I mentioned you, but he didn't remember you. I subtly showed him pictures of you as a child, and then with him and he asked me who was that blonde kid with him. He deleted you, John."

John felt like if someone was shooting him again. But this time, at his heart. He was a doctor and he knew cocaine's side effects. And he knew Sherlock and yet he couldn't understand what he had done. Because it was his fault. It was his fault because if he hadn't left him, he wouldn't have gone sick. He promised his mummy he was going to take care of Sherlock and he didn't. He let Sherlock died.

"And my letters? You never gave him my letters?"

"I received all your letters, John. Believe me when I say I never read the ones addressed to Sherlock. Just mine. And I want you to understand I did it for his own well being-"

"How do you know that? I was asking him for forgiveness! You don't know how hard it was for me to be there, in Afghanistan, killing people and thinking Sherlock hated me! I... I wrote him every time I could. I wanted to know he was fine, because I knew something wrong was going on! And you could have told me! I could have come back-"

"It wasn't that easy, John! It was hard to get any word from Sherlock. He was heartbroken like the two of us after mummy's death! I tried, God knows I tried, but I couldn't keep him safe as I promised you!"

John thrown his walking stick to the floor and covered his face with his bare hands.

**If inconvenient come anyway. SH.**

Another text.

"You stopped his letters."

John wasn't asking Mycroft this time. John's voice was confident this time because he knew Mycroft Holmes. They grown up together.

"John, I tried my best. I tried my best. Sherlock is clean and I want you to keep with this flat-share, with your identity. If Sherlock finds out..." Mycroft Holmes looked down, not being able to meet John's eyes. "If Sherlock finds out, I don't know what consequences that may have."

**It could be dangerous. SH**

John put his phone back to his pocket and turned around, making his own way back to the car. He didn't have more words to say.


	14. Running Together

On his way back to Baker Street, he asked the good brunette woman who was obviously under Mycroft's wing to take him to his place before going to see his brother again. Something about Sherlock's texts sent shrives to his spine. If his brother was in danger, he was going to fight for him.

John was conscious he couldn't make it for the time he was gone. But for now on, he was going to protect Sherlock.

"Took your time."

The doctor was greeted by Sherlock lying with his back over a large sofa, with his left hand pressing three patches on his right arm, just above his wrist.

"Are those nicotine patches? Three!"

Sherlock nodded. "It's a three patch problem. Helps me think. It's hard to sustain the habit on London these days."

"Good news for breathing."

"Breathing? breathing is boring."

"Well…you asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important."

"Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone? Don't use mine, always a chance that my number will be recognized. It's on the website."

John was glad Sherlock needed him. But he needed to act. He needed Sherlock to think he was a completely stranger who entered into his life by destiny or casualty. He needed Sherlock Holmes to believe he was John Watson.

So he smiled and continued pretending.

"You brought me here, to send a text?"

John kept his eyes fixed on the window. The black car was still outside and something inside him told him Mycroft could come upstairs and tell Sherlock all the truth. All the things he ignored and all the life he erased from his mind with cocaine.

"Text, yes. The number's on my desk. What's wrong?"

"I... I met a friend of yours," lied John.

Sherlock looked shocked."A friend?"

"Your arch enemy, according to him."

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

John didn't hesitated, but Sherlock's words told him everything he needed to know. Apparently Mycroft was still using those kinds of methods to keep an eye on Sherlock. He used to do it when they were in University together.

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

His brother had his hands glued together under his chin. And John remembered.

_"What are you doing, Sherlock?"_

_"Thinking."_

_"It's looks like you are praying."_

_"I'm thinking what I can do to convince mother to get me a skull."_

_"She won't get you one, you know it."_

_The two ten year old boys continued experimenting and thinking a way to convince mummy to get them a skull to play._

"There's a card with a number on the table. Type it."

John sighed and looked at the card. It was a mobile number with neither an inscription or a name.

"Have you done it?"

"Hold on, yes!"

"This words exactly 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come'"

"You blacked out?"

John was worried, but he tried to keep it to himself. Sherlock shook his head and got up, showing him the pink suitcase he had been talking about on the crime scene.

"That's…that's the pink lady's case, that's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously. Oh, perhaps I should mention I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did."

"Why not? Given that text and the fact I have her case it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

"Now and then yes," admitted Sherlock.

"OK. How did you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?"

His little brother explained her mobile was missing. Everything else was in there, but Jennifer Wilson's mobile wasn't. John suggested she could just have left it back home, but Sherlock was right after all, having a string of lovers, none woman would leave her mobile back home.

And John had just texted a murder.

"Have you talk to the police?"

Sherlock shook his head and took his coat. "Four people are dead, there isn't time to talk to the police."

"So, why are you talking to me?"

"Mrs Hudson took my skull," said Sherlock, a bit hurt.

John had to fight a grin. "So I'm basically filling in for your skull?"

"Relax, you're doing fine. Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly."

"What, you want me to come with you?"

Sherlock nodded. "I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention so…problem?"

John explained what Donovan had told him, and Sherlock didn't say much. If John knew Sherlock enough, he could tell something happened between the.

A bad love-relationship?

Was it just work?

John knew he would have to find out later.

* * *

They went to a very cosy restaurant. Both sat on a very little table next to the window and soon they were approached by a old man who seemed to know Sherlock.

"Sherlock. Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you an for your date."

Sherlock ignored the comment. "Do you want to eat?"

But John didn't. "I'm not his date."

Apparently Sherlock got the man, who seemed to be the owner of the restaurant, off a murder charge. While Lestrade wanted to send Angelo to prison after a triple murder, Sherlock proved to him Angelo had been in the other side of the town, house-breaking.

If you're the owner of a very lovely restaurant, what makes you go to the other side of the town to do some house-breaking?

"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic."

John shook his head. "I'm not his date!"

"You may as well eat. We might have a long wait," suggested Sherlock.

And John accepted it.

After all, it had been years since they last saw each other. It had been years since they last saw their faces, since they last shared a laugh, since they last ate dinner together.

Dinners with Sherlock were funny. They had always been funny, even more when they were kids and teenagers. Sherlock liked to annoy Mycroft, and John laughed so much. Even when their parents told him not to do it, Sherlock kept doing it. And John kept laughing.

Even when they grew up, they continued doing so.

But even when Mycroft was not there, and even if he was, John knew they were not going to laugh and make jokes as they used to do it.

Because Sherlock didn't remember John. He didn't even remember having another brother apart from Mycroft.

"People don't have arch-enemies," said John between bites.

"I'm sorry?"

"In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it?" asked Sherlock, still focused on the building on the opposite street. "Sounds a bit dull. What do real people have, then, in their…real lives?"

"Friends. People they know, people they like, people they don't like…brothers, sisters. Girlfriends, boyfriends."

"That's dull."

"You don't have a girlfriend, then," said John, when what he really wanted to ask if Sherlock had brothers.

Sherlock continued staring at the window. "Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

They had never talked about it, John had a few girlfriends when he was a teenager and then when he was in uni, what that was it. Sherlock never introduced him to some girl or... boy, or whatever shook his boat. John never asked, and Sherlock never said a words about it.

But now, after so many years apart, John wondered if Sherlock had got a wife, a husband maybe.

"Mm…oh right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way -"

"I know it's fine," snapped Sherlock.

"So, you've go a boyfriend then."

"No."

And John didn't know what to say. "Right, OK. You're unattached. Just like me. Fine, good."

A few seconds passed, when Sherlock turned to face him. "John, erm…I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered, I'm really not looking for any…"

"No, I'm not asking. No. I'm just saying, it's all fine."

God, now it was awkward, thought John. It was meant to be a calm, get-to-know-you conversation, but it ended in a big confusion. John didn't want to sound as a man who was interested in Sherlock. Sherlock got the wrong idea.

Before John could say something, Sherlock spotted cab waiting outside the place they had texted about. Sherlock immediately took his coat and scarf and ran after the cab, but John was not going to leave Sherlock alone. He ran after him, forgetting he had a walking stick.

And a psychosomatic limp.

They ran for minutes, and they even climbed some buildings and jumped over rooftops. Sherlock's legs were long and athletic while John's were short and stiff, but they managed to get to the cab.

But it was a false alarm.

"OK. That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing…I've ever done," said John, resting his back against the walls of Baker Street, still panting, trying to catch his breath.

Sherlock was next to him, smiling too. "And you invaded Afghanistan."

"It wasn't just me."

Both shared a warm laugh. And John enjoyed it. He enjoyed hearing Sherlock laugh again, like they used to do when they were kids, then teenagers and then young men.

However, never John had expected to open the door and find Angelo with his walking stick.

He wasn't limping anymore.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" asked Mrs Hudson, the landlady, with tears in her eyes.

Sherlock frowned and both John and Sherlock made their way upstairs, where they found a whole police team going through their things.

It was a drug bust.

And John had to pretend. "Seriously? This guy a junkie? Have you met him?"

Lestrade looked at John confused.

Sherlock tried to make him understand. "John -"

"I pretty sure that you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."

"John, you probably want to shut up now."

"You?"

Sherlock turned to face Lestrade. "I am clean! You know I am. I don't even smoke!"

It turned out to be 'Rachel' was the pink's lady stillborn daughter. Even when Sherlock asked himself why the pink lady, in her last moments of life, was thinking about her stillborn daughter.

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it-well, maybe he…I don't know, talks to them. Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow," suggested John.

"Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?"

Everyone looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. Everyone but John.

"Not good?"

John nodded. "A bit not good, yes."

"Look if you dying…if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

John wanted to say Sherlock the truth; that he had been in that position, he had been close to death and he asked God to let him live enough time to see his brothers again.

But John couldn't tell Sherlock that.

"Please God, let me live."

Sherlock realised 'Rachel' was her password code. Being a woman who probably had a job in the media, and who was smartly dressed, she probably had a smart phone with gps.

Using her email address and the password, they could see where the phone was.

It was in Baker Street.

"Sherlock you OK?" asked John, worriedly.

"What? Yes, yes, I'm fine."

"Where are you going?"

"Fresh air, just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long."

"You sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine."


	15. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson

John felt the adrenaline running through his veins. He felt himself back in Afghanistan. There was a life at the stakes.

Sherlock was in danger.

And John was going to save him.

"Sherlock!"

* * *

_"Sherlock!" John looked at his brother with worried eyes. "Mummy will kill you!"_

_"Mummy doesn't need to know."_

_"But -"_

_"It's for an experiment!" snapped Sherlock, cutting the best red roses from the garden. Those were their mother's favourite roses, in fact, Mrs Holmes loved those roses with all her heart - she had planted them and she had always taken care of them._

_John rolled his blue eyes. The thirteen year old boy sighed tiredly and patted Sherlock's back. "Sherlock, mummy will get mad."_

_"I don't care."_

_"Really? 'cos last time she caught you cutting her roses she didn't let you use your lab for a week," said John, jokingly. "And you cried."_

_"I did not do such thing. Babies cry," said Sherlock, turning to his brother._

_"Crying is not a bad thing."_

_"It's stupid! Stupid people cry!"_

_John swallowed hard. He followed his brother to the lab - that old greenhouse that had been remodeled so Sherlock would have his own space and looked how Sherlock started pulling at the petals._

_Sherlock raised his gaze. "I didn't mean it."_

_"Hmm?"_

_"What I said before. I didn't mean it."_

_John faked a smile._

_Just a few days ago Sherlock caught John crying in his room alone. It was a dark, cold night when he found John curled on bed, crying, remembering his biological parents._

_"It's okay," replied John._

_"You're not stupid."_

_"Mummy will definitely kill you," said John, changing the subject when both boys saw their parent's car parked afar from them. "What will she do now?"_

_Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe she won't get me a skull this Christmas."_

* * *

"So, the shooter. No sign?"

Lestrade nodded. "Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but... we've got nothing to go on."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."

The D.I. rolled his eyes and stared at the young detective in front of him. "Okay."

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman: a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service..."

Sherlock's eyes danced on John's figure standing just a feet from him.

"And nerves of steel..."

John was the shooter.

John had saved him.

"Actually, do you know what? Ignore me."

Lestrade frowned. "Sorry?"

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, err, the shock talking..."

"Where're you going?"

"I just need to talk about the... the rent," snapped Sherlock and started to walk away from the ambulance where he had been taken to before, soon afterwards the police arrived to the crime scene.

"But I've still got questions for you!"

Sherlock just ignored him and got rid of that hideous orange blanket and tossed it into a police car.

"Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful," explained John, with both hands behind his back.

To John's surprise, Sherlock smiled at him widely.

John had missed that smile for so long. He had longed for that smile for so many years... for so much time.

"Good shot."

"Yes," whispered John. "Yes. Must have been, through that window."

"Well, you'd know."

John shot Sherlock a fake confused look and Sherlock curled his lips upwards. "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

John couldn't help but smile only a little.

 _"_ Are you all right?"

John nodded. "Yes, of course. I'm all right."

"Well, you have just killed a man."

 _'I would do it again. For you_ ' John wanted to say.

But he did not say it.

"Yes. It's true, isn't it?" replied John. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie."

Sherlock chuckled and started leading the way. Both walked side by side for a few moments in silence, only enjoying each other's company and looking at the police men working around them.

"That's true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took to get us here," added Sherlock and smiled.

John giggled.

"Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene!"

Sherlock nodded just a bit. "You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me."

"Keep your voice down!"

* * *

_"John? John, are you crying?"_

_Sherlock got close to his brother. John was curled on his bed, with his back to the door and his face to the wall. It was dark, but Sherlock could notice there were tears rolling down John's face._

_"I'm okay."_

_Sherlock sat next to him. "Why are you crying?"_

_"It's nothing," replied John, his voice was hoarse. "I'm fine."_

_Sherlock knew._

_"Is it because of your parents?"_

_John didn't look at his brother. He only stared at the ceiling above and nodded softly. "I miss them."_

_"I don't know what to say, John," admitted Sherlock. "I'm sorry."_

_"It's nothing."_

_Sherlock lay next to John and took his hand. "Mummy and father love you."_

_It was a single sentence said to make John feel better. But Sherlock meant it. Their parents loved John. Since the very first day they had introduced John as their 'son' but not because they had adopted him and John had their name, legally speaking. But because they loved John as if he had always been their real, biological son._

_Mr and Mrs Holmes loved their three children, equally._

_But they had something for John._

_And for Sherlock as well._

_It was lovely for Mrs Holmes to raise two children of the same age. They were so different. Physically speaking, Sherlock was taller, slender, he had dark curls and gray eyes and his skin was very pale while John was shorter than his brother, he had round cheeks and sandy straight hair and blue eyes._

_Sherlock liked science and chemistry. John liked literature and nature._

_Sherlock was the boy who did things, who was naughty, who liked to run and cut his mother's roses just to use them for experiments._

_John was the boy who was always behind Sherlock reminding him what he was doing was a lot not good and that their mother was going to be very upset._

_And yet both were very alike._

_As if they had always been brothers._

* * *

_"_ You were going take that damned pill, weren't you?"

Sherlock curled his lips upwards. "Of course I wasn't. I was binding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life yo prove you're clever," said John, faking he didn't know it.

John was well aware of Sherlock's love for science, mystery, adrenaline.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot."

It had been years, but years since John had called Sherlock 'and idiot' and yet, there was Sherlock smiling at him, just like he used to do.

* * *

_"Sherlock, why did you cut my roses?"_

_Both John and Sherlock were standing in front of their mother, both side by side. Across them was Mrs Holmes, with both hands on her hips, trying to make herself look angry - and indeed she was._

_"It was for an experiment," admitted Sherlock, heartily._

_Mrs Holmes closed her eyes and sighed tiredly. "Sherlock, you could have asked, darling."_

_"You wouldn't have let me!"_

_"Watch your tone, young boy!"_

_John squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock..."_

_Little Sherlock of thirteen years old knew what his brother John meant._

_Sherlock looked into his mother's eyes and pouted just slightly before apologising. "I'm sorry, mummy."_

_Mrs Holmes' angry expression vanished in the air when she smiled to her children and patted their heads. "Promise me you will not do such thing again."_

_"I promise," said Sherlock._

_Once they were allowed to go back to their experiments, John couldn't help but laugh._

_"What's so funny?"_

_"You."_

_Sherlock looked at John expectantly waiting for an answer._

_John smiled. "You're an idiot."_

* * *

"Dinner?"

John nodded. "Starving."

"There's a good Chinese stays open 'till two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle -"

"Sherlock, that's him," whispered John cutting Sherlock off and looking at the tall man with an umbrella in his hand. "That's the man I was talking to you about."

Deep inside, John was praying to God. He needed Sherlock to see he and Mycroft had nothing to do with each other. In fact, John had to lie and he had to become an actor - a good one.

Sherlock couldn't know who he was.

To Sherlock John was going to be John Watson. Because John Holmes died years ago.

"I know  _exactly_  who that is."

Mycroft cleared his throat and looked at his brother - at Sherlock. "So, another case cracked. How very public spirited... though that's never really your motivation, isn't it?"

"What are you doing here?"

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

Sherlock nodded sarcastically. "Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'."

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no."

Mycroft curled his lips upwards. "We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer... and you know how it did always upset Mummy."

John, who so far had only looked at his brothers 'argued', as they used to do, had managed to stay calm and fake a very surprised and confused look. But when Mycroft mentioned 'Mummy', his heart beat faster within his chest.

God, he really missed her.

John missed his mother.

* * *

_John was sitting next to her in his parent's bed. Tears were falling down his cheeks and he felt like a five year old boy again. He felt the pain within his chest, the same pain he felt when he woke up one morning in an orphanage after his parents death. Elizabeth smiled at him, and hugged him. It wasn't the same hugs she used to give to him, the ones he felt like she was going to break his ribs. It was a weak hug. She was dying._

_"Promise me you'll back and you'll have a lovely family. Take care of Richard, he's becoming a very stubborn man, you know."_

_John laughed a bit, and Elizabeth stroked his hand. He was wearing the jumper she knitted for him. Under her touch it felt soft and warm. She could feel the warmness of his son through it._

_"Take care of Sherlock, dear. I know he loves Mycroft, no matter how much he keeps denying it. But we both know how much he loves you. You two are brothers. Always remember that, son of mine."_

_"Yes, Mummy."_

* * *

"It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft!" snapped Sherlock, angrily.

John had to pretend.

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's 'Mummy'?"

"Mother," corrected Sherlock. "Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?"

Mycroft bit his lower lip. "Losing it, in fact."

"He's your brother?" asked John, again, faking a rather confused tone.

"Of course he's my brother."

"So he's not..." John felt their brother's gaze on him. "I dunno. Criminal mastermind?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Close enough."

"For goodness' sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He is the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic."

As soon as Sherlock was out of earshot, John turned to his older brother. "Stop this childish thing."

"Sherlock can't know," whispered Mycroft ignoring John's previous words.

John turned around and ran to keep on Sherlock's long legs.

"I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No, you can't."

"Almost can. You did get shot, though."

John frowned. "Sorry?"

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound."

'I wish I could forget it' thought John.

But he didn't say it.

"Oh yeah. Shoulder."

Sherlock looked at him. "Shoulder! I thought so."

"No you didn't."

"The left one."

John chuckled. "Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Yes you do," said John and laughed.

To John's surprise, Sherlock was actually smiling. Widely smiling.

"What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty."

"What's Moriarty?"

Sherlock clapped his hands together and turned to who he didn't know was his brother. "I have absolutely no idea!"

From afar, Mycroft was staring at them when he managed a tiny smile.

"Interesting, that fellow soldier. He could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active."

His young assistant turned to his employer confused. "Sorry, sir. Whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."


	16. Our Memories

John was sitting on which was now his armchair, in front of the fireplace, holding a warm cup of tea. On his lap was his own laptop and again a new entry he was meant to write for his blog was nothing but a flat, white box where he was meant to write his thoughts. There were no words to say, or at least, John didn't  _know_  what to write about.

He had written about that strange, indeed, very strange meeting he had had with Sherlock, but he didn't write about 'How I found my brother'. John wrote about a strange man - a mad man.

John had moved in to 221 B Baker Street three days ago and since then Sherlock had not left his room. It was true then: there were days in which Sherlock wouldn't talk at all, wouldn't appear at all, wouldn't eat at all and would do nothing but play the violin at three in the morning. However, far from being annoyed by that last fact, John was happy to be awaken by Sherlock and his sweet melodies produced on that violin. It reminded him of the days in which they used to play together in Mummy's blue room. Mummy played the piano, John played the clarinet and Sherlock played the violin. Mycroft and father only listened to them from afar and sometimes they would be their audience: some rainy and therefore dull, boring Sunday afternoons Sherlock, John and their mummy would play and Mycroft and their father would sit there and admire how the three of them produced such lovely, sweet tones.

_"Well done, John, Sherlock," said Mr Holmes while clapping his hands softly. "You're brilliant!"_

_Their father embraced both children and each boy stood there under the warm touch of his father's arms._

What could he write about? Then, John remembered: pink clothes, pink shoes, pink case, pink phone - 'A Study in Pink'...'And after all that? Well, me and my flatmate went for a Chinese. Like I say, he really does know some great restaurants.' When John finished tipping, he looked up at the mantelpiece and his blue eyes focused on the human skull.

That was that human skull Sherlock had asked for for many years until their parents got him one.

_"What do you want for Christmas?"_

_Sherlock looked at John and the blue eyed boy just shrugged. "Nothing, really."_

_"Don't be dull. You should tell mummy you want a 'Cluedo' game."_

_Mrs Holmes smiled. "That's all?"_

_John nodded. "I don't really want anything. I've got all I need."_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I want a skull. A human skull," he said, firmly. "A real human skull."_

_"No. I'm not getting you a human skull. Let alone a real one."_

_"But -"_

_"You have been a very naughty boy this year, Sherlock: you cut my roses, set fire to the sheets of your bed and ruined Mycroft's clothes. And let's not mention the fact you put laxative on his birthday cake."_

_Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and pouted. He looked away to make the little tears, threatening to go out, to vanish from his eyes. "It was for an experiment..." whispered he._

_John smiled at their mummy. But Mrs Holmes knew she had to make those kind of things stop. And this time John was not going to fix it with an 'apology smile'._

_"He didn't meant it, mummy..."_

_"No, John. You're not going to save him this time. He needs to learn his actions have consequences. And this year there will not be a human skull under the tree."_

_Sherlock turned furious. "Stop talking as if I'm not here!"_

_"I was really considering your gift, Sherlock," said Mrs Holmes, firmly. "But you must learn from your mistakes."_

_"Mummy, please..."_

_"No."_

John smiled bitterly. Mummy had made Sherlock wait for almost two more years until she got him a real human skull for Christmas. Mummy had always been a very determined woman. When she said 'no', it was a 'no'. And she meant it. Sherlock had to learn his lesson and stopped doing things that did upset their mother only to do more experiments.

"Talking to the skull?"

John turned suddenly and looked at his brother - his flatmate now - sitting across him on his own black armchair.

"Where... where did you get it? I was a med student myself and it was hard to get one."

Sherlock eyed John for a few seconds and the doctor feared Sherlock could have deduced he was faking. That he was lying.

"It was a present from my mother."

"Your mother gave it to you?"

"Yes. Took me long years until I could convince her to get me one," explained Sherlock. "The woman wouldn't understand."

John didn't know if he should continue the conversation. He closed his laptop and finished drinking his tea. "Mother always want the best for their children."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm thirsty."

"I'll put the kettle on, shall I?"

"No milk, two sugars."

They drank tea in silence. John continued looking for job offers on the internet and Sherlock lay flat on his back on the large sofa staring at the ceiling and pressing a single nicotine patch to his forearm. The silence was comfortable and it made John feel secure. He had to act - John had to pretend he was John Watson, that he had always been John Watson, a common, boring man who happened to be a doctor and a wounded soldier.

"She's dead."

"Hmm?"

Sherlock's gaze was still on the ceiling above. "My mother. She died years ago."

John knew their mother was dead. He had been there -  _they_  had been there when she last inhaled and exhaled her last breath.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," snapped Sherlock. "A bad flu turned to a pneumonia and the stupid woman insisted on doing the gardening herself. In  _winter._ "

John closed his eyes and sighed inwardly, taking advantage Sherlock was not looking at him.

It hurt.

Their mother wasn't a stupid woman. She had never been. Mummy was brilliant.

Maybe her only mistake - her only sin was loving her roses far too much.

"Maybe -"

"Oh, I can even predict what you are going to say," said Sherlock, exasperatedly. "'Maybe she liked gardening'. She knew she was ill and she exposed herself to the cold weather. It only made it worst. It was a stupid, senseless thing to do."

John didn't say anything.

Sherlock sat on the sofa, facing his new flatmate. "I  _hate_ it."

"What?"

"Nothing."

_"Sherlock... are you eating healthy food? Are you -"_

_Sherlock nodded, rolling his eyes. "Yes. Should you have a doubt, ask John."_

_"Yes, mummy. He's eating well," confirmed John while checking his mummy's temperature._

_Their mother coughed. "But you're far too slim, son. And you John," said she, turning to John who was sitting next to her and listening to her lungs with his stethoscope. "You've put on some weight."_

_Sherlock chuckled. "That's because his stupid girlfriends cooks rubbish."_

_"We broke up."_

_"Did you?" asked Sherlock with a frown.  
_

_John nodded bitterly._

_"She was boring - wait. You didn't leave her. She left you."_

_"Yes, Sherlock, thanks for pointing that out."_

_Mummy patted Sherlock's hand. "Hush, Sherlock. Leave John alone."_

_"I don't understand why you were putting on weight if you two shagged like rabbits -"_

_"SHERLOCK!"_

* * *

"Interesting."

John raised his gaze. "What?"

"You."

"Me?"

Sherlock continued reading the newspapers. Mrs Hudson poured more coffee into Sherlock's mug and then placed some eggs and bread on the table. Sherlock didn't say anything and Mrs Hudson placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're welcome, you young man."

John noticed Sherlock was very rude. Extremely. He had always been after all, it was no surprise for John, but at least years ago Sherlock would thanks the maids and most of the personnel working at their house. He was not the best person to deal with but at least he was far more polite before.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

The landlady smiled fondly to John. "It's okay, John. But just this one, I'm not your housekeeper!"

When Mrs Hudson left their flat, Sherlock lowered his newspaper. "You've been living with me for a week and you're still here."

John frowned. "And?"

"Must you do that?"

"What?"

"You don't use your brain," answered Sherlock. "It was quite obvious what I was meant to say."

"Not obvious to me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John noticed it was something he did quite a lot. "Despite my manners, my experiments, my lack of communication and your obvious boredom you're still here."

John didn't know what to say. He was still there, despite anything, because of Sherlock.

Because being 'flatmates' was the only way they could be together - the only way John could be next to his brother.

"You're right. You're rude to Mrs Hudson, you call me 'idiot' every time you get the chance to, your experiments are all over the kitchen and you don't talk to days on end," John paused to sip more coffee. "But you're wrong."

"Am _I_  wrong?" asked Sherlock, sarcastically faking a curious tone.

"I'm not bored."

This made Sherlock want to smile.

But he didn't.

"You're not bored?"

"Why would I be bored?"

Sherlock twisted his lips. "The previous ones left after a day or two."

"So I'm the first one to last at least more than two days?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Well, you'll have to put up with me then because I'm planning to stay."

Sherlock chuckled. "You will leave."

"I won't."

"Let's see how long you last living with a highly functioning sociopath, shall we?"

_"John? Do you think I'm mentally ill?"_

_John looked up at his brother. Both eight year old boys were inside, reading books and doing their homework when Sherlock asked the question._

_"Are you in pain?"_

_"No, don't be silly."_

_"Then how come you say you're ill?" asked John worriedly._

_Sherlock looked if anyone was close. Mycroft was at school, their father was at the office and their mummy was on the kitchen giving instructions to the maids for dinner._

_"I heard mummy and father talking last night," whispered Sherlock. "They think I'm mentally ill."_

_"And what does it mean?"_

_Sherlock shrugged. "They think I'm crazy."_

_"Why they think that? You don't look crazy to me."_

_"Father said I'm weird and mummy said I'm just different."_

_John bit his lip and then smiled. "You're not crazy."_

_"You think?"_

_"Of course," John smiled widely to his brother. "You're just very clever."_


	17. Questions and Answers

_They were in John's room. John was sitting across Sherlock who already had an idea of what his brother was about to say._

_Sherlock hated himself. He hated himself because he hadn't been able to deduce all the things John did behind his back - all the things John wanted to do and never had told him about: John was joining the army. John was going to Afghanistan. John was going to fight for their country._

_John was going to a war._

_And Sherlock didn't want John to die._

_"I'm joining the army."_

_Sherlock stared at his brother. He moved his dark curls off his forehead. Sherlock didn't blink. He only stared at John - his eyes were cold._

_Mycroft, who was standing behind John noticed the hatred on Sherlock's eyes._

_"I know."_

_"I... "_

_"Did mummy know?"_

_John nodded. "Yes."_

_"Does father know?"_

_"Yes."_

_Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and then at John._

_And John feared Sherlock for the first time in his life._

_"And I presume Mycroft had used his 'powers' to get you into the army when you don't have the practice needed as you're a recent graduated doctor," said Sherlock, coldly._

_"I'm sorry -"_

_"You never told me," whispered Sherlock, cutting John off. "You... you waited for the last minute to tell me you're going to a war to die?"_

_"Sherlock -"_

_Sherlock slammed a hand on the table filling the space between them. "Am I nothing to you? When was I meant to be told about this?" asked Sherlock, indignantly. "When I was sent your dead body?"_

_John shook his head. Little tears were already filling his blue eyes. "You're my brother, Sherlock. I -"_

_"No."_

_"I'll back, I promise. I promised to Mummy -"_

_"You're not John Holmes. You're not my brother."_

_John frowned. And his heart was beating hard inside his chest. "What are you talking about?"_

_"We are different! You were just a replacement. You're not John Holmes. You're not my brother!"_

_Suddenly, all came out of his chest. Sherlock just spat it on John's face. Everyone knew John was adopted, even John himself knew. He had been adopted when he was only seven years old and he had always been fine with that. There was no point in denying the truth. John knew Sherlock and Mycroft were his brothers only because they shared their last name with him and that was because Mr and Mrs Holmes - father and mummy had adopted him._ _But John felt Mycroft and Sherlock were like his real brothers - as if they had been born all from the same mother. Mycroft and Sherlock, yes, they were mummy's natural children. But John wasn't. John only arrived at their house and joined the picture one day from out of the blue._

_Mycroft and Sherlock had been conceived, loved, expected children. John hadn't._

_Mummy and father had always given John the same love they gave to Mycroft and Sherlock. Mummy and father made John feel as if he had always been their child. They never loved one over the other; they had the same things, they went to the same places and mummy and father loved them equally._

_A replacement? A replacement of what?_

_A replacement of whom?_

_John tried very hard not to fall to the floor. His knees were strong, but not his eyes. Heavy and painful tears fell over his cheeks. The man in front of him saw the damage he had caused. John was speechless._

_But Sherlock wasn't._

_Sherlock had so many things to say - so many things to tell John. John had caused pain in his heart and Sherlock hated him for it. John had always made things better. When their parents told him off after some silly experiment, when their classmates bullied him, when he was called 'freak' and 'crazy' John had always been there to remind him there was someone who loved him, who believed in him, and that person was John._

_And John was now leaving Sherlock - John was leaving when Sherlock most needed him._

_Sherlock was struggling with himself. He had recently made a discovery about himself and he had fears. Sherlock needed John to know what was happening to him, what he felt within his chest. However, he couldn't say it. Sherlock decided to keep it to himself and then their mother died. The woman he had loved - the only woman Sherlock had loved with all his heart died and now he felt alone._

_'I've got John. I have my brother. John will understand'._

_But John was leaving to fight for someone else. John was being selfish. John was leaving him alone. John was going to die._

_And suddenly Sherlock conceived John had to know the truth._

_If john had hurt him, he was going to hurt him as well._

_"You're not John Holmes. you were just a replacement. A new piece of furniture father bought to mummy because John, the real John Holmes died!"_

_John stared at Sherlock in horror. The tears were countless and cold, strangely cold running down his face. John couldn't believe it._

_"What?"_

_Mycroft appeared in the scene. He was pale and he tried to calm Sherlock who was still standing in front of John, shouting at him. He tried to put himself between them feeling the tension on his brother's voice. And his biggest fear was watching Sherlock hurting, hitting John - something that had never happened. But Sherlock was standing so close to the young doctor that it was a very possible thing to happen._

_"John, Sherlock is not -"_

_"Shut up, Mycroft! He needs to know! Mummy lost a baby and he was going to be John Holmes, the real and the only one. But one day in those political events she saw you at that orphanage alone and when she knew your name and your date of birth she kicked the floor like a spoil brat and father bought you!" shout Sherlock to his older brother and then turned to John. "You're not my brother! We're different, we're not brothers, John! You're nothing!"_

_John gasped for more air and looked into Sherlock's gray eyes. Those eyes, his brother's eyes had always been so calm, so peaceful. Sherlock's eyes had always been like a calm cloudy day._

_Now Sherlock's eyes were like a storm meant to destroy everything on the way._

_Sherlock was destroying him. Sherlock was tearing his heart to countless bits._

_Sherlock was killing him._

_"Sherlock... we... I...," John couldn't find the proper words. "I know we're not biological brothers but I love you - you're my brother."_

_"You are not my brother!" said Sherlock, emphasizing each word by hitting John's chest with his index finger. "You are nothing to me!"_

_Mycroft saw the fury growing within Sherlock and Mycroft himself was ready to slap or even punch Sherlock in the face but John stopped his hand. He moved Mycroft from his place between them, until he and Sherlock were just inches apart._

_Sherlock's fury disappeared when he noticed John's blue eyes. Those eyes he used to look at and know everything by just looking at them were now red and full of tears. John was crying even more than when Mummy died._

_His anger caused something he had never want to occur. Suddenly his face changed, and he tried to touch John, to touch his brother, but he couldn't._

_"I'm sorry, John."_

_A long silence filled the room, John's old room. It still had the blue curtains, his library full of books and over his desk was his Biology book they used to read on their afternoons making experiments. On a frame hanging on the wall was the needlework Mummy made for John. For the John Holmes who died many years ago._

_Mycroft felt the pain that John was feeling._

_"We are brothers, John."_

_Silence fell over them again. The other man couldn't help but try to get close to him. But the recent graduate Doctor stepped back._

_"You said it. Don't you remember, Sherlock? You said the truth. We are not brothers."_

_"John, I didn't mean it."_

_"You said it Sherlock. We are different."_

_"Please, don't go -"_

_"I'm a doctor, and my country needs me. I don't have anything to do here. I don't belong to this family," said John, his voice was only a mere whisper. "I'm nothing."_

_"Please, don't go. Please, John, I need you."_

_John shook his head. He had heard enough. He had had enough. "I'm sorry, Sherlock Holmes."_

_John's heart couldn't take it._

_"I need you."_

John woke up with tears in his eyes. He looked at his surroundings and realised he was in his room.

He could hear Sherlock playing the violin downstairs.

It was four in the morning.

* * *

"You had a nightmare."

John only nodded and kept on reading the newspapers. He was able to feel Sherlock's gaze on him, his cloudy gray eyes on him, deducing him. And John only hoped Sherlock would never realise the reasons of his nightmares. Let alone the content of them, what they were about.

"And the therapist?"

"No limp, no therapist," replied John.

Sherlock sipped more of his coffee, still concentrated on his new flatmate. There was something about John Watson... there was something about him and Sherlock couldn't lay a finger on it. The man was far from extravagant, far from being a new specimen. John Watson was an ordinary, common English man. He was so predictable, so human.

But John Watson was different. And Sherlock didn't know why.

Sherlock Holmes didn't know why John Watson was so boring, so ordinary and yet absolutely fascinating to his eyes.

"It wasn't about Afghanistan."

John nodded.

Sherlock frowned. "You had a difficult childhood - not the best upbringing I'd say if you have a sister who's a drinker."

John swore Sherlock was still being indifferent when it came about emotions. Sherlock was still spitting people's life stories without even paying attention to their feelings.

"Yes, I suppose."

This made Sherlock think twice before telling John his deductions about him. Most people - most men would have punched him in the face for that, and most women would have slapped him hard across the face. But John Watson never looked at him. John Watson only confirmed his deductions and continued reading and sipping tea.

John Watson was _different_.

"You're different."

John froze, but he didn't say anything. He knew he had to act, that he had to pretend whatever Sherlock said meant nothing to him when actually everything Sherlock said felt like a knife stabbing his heart.

"Different?"

Sherlock nodded. "Anyone would have punched me."

"I'd punched enough people in the past."

After a long silence, and when Mrs Hudson appeared to wash their cups and ask them what they wanted for lunch, John decided to ask. If he was going to pretend, he had to do it well. He couldn't just act, pretend he was indifferent to what Sherlock said or did. It was within John's nature to be curious. After all, he was 'normal' and 'ordinary' and an 'idiot' as Sherlock had told him once.

John had to join the game. He had to ask.

Even when he already knew all the answers.

But every time you ask, you won't always hear what you want to hear. Sometimes you have to be careful, because people's answers can hurt.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

John shrugged. "What about your childhood?"

"What about it?"

"Are you going to repeat my questions all the time? I've answered yours. You've to answer mine."

Sherlock was tipping something on his phone. His eyes not focused on John anymore. "I asked but you didn't answer."

"Because you have already deduced it."

"Fair enough. What do you want to know about my childhood?"

"Whatever you want to tell me," replied John.

"I don't really know what you want to know - I can deduce it, though. But you may as well ask, you've earned the chance."

John frowned. "Earned?"

"You do the shopping and you haven't complained about the violin," explained Sherlock. "Take this conversation as a reward."

"As a reward? You're not bloody Sean Connery, you know," joked John.

Sherlock frowned. "Sean Connery?"

"James Bond. You don't remember when..."

John stopped talking when he realised what he was about to say.  _'You don't remember when I made you watch those films when we were teenagers and we caught a cold?'_

Sherlock was staring at him.

John panicked for a moment.

"I might have deleted that one."

"Forget it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was home schooled until my parents decided I needed to 'socialise'. I had been mostly raised by maids while my mother had tea with the Queen and my father had affairs with the women who worked for him."

John choked on his tea.

His father? Richard Holmes an unfaithful man?

John couldn't believe it. No, he refused to believe that. Richard loved their mother. He was always there for them, for mummy as well. He had never done such thing.

Sherlock must have been wrong, yes. Of course. Maybe it was something else he had deleted it because of the drugs.

"What?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why are you surprised?"

Shit.

"Well... as I said when we met here to see the flat I'd looked you up on the internet. Your father was the PM - he was a good man -"

"A married man with two children chooses to have affairs - do good men do that, John?" said Sherlock, cutting John off.

John decided he didn't want to ask more.

Because whatever Sherlock was going to tell him, it was probably something John didn't want to hear.

Or know.

"You've got questions."

John shook his head. "No."

"No, I don't see much him much - he's dead. And if you ask Mycroft he will probably tell you it was  _my_  fault," said Sherlock, bitterly.

"Why your fault?"

John knew he shouldn't be asking. It was suspicious. But he hadn't been there when their father died. He was fighting for his country, he was fixing men and running and trying to survive.

"Because according to Mycroft my  _addiction_  killed him."

"So it was true then?"

"Lestrade does not only bullies me with drugs busts to see if I'm holding evidence but also because he owes Mycroft the currently position he's occupying now within the Scotland Yard," explained Sherlock. "I'm clean if that's what you want to know but you don't dare to ask."

"Good."

Sherlock frowned. "You should call her."

"How did you - never mind."

"Sentiment. How dull people are. If you don't want to do it even when you know she's your sister, you should do it for the social conventions that rule our world."

John chuckled, sadly. "Says the man who calls his own brother his 'arch enemy'."

Sherlock walked to the windows and picked up his violin off his armchair. "If my other brother had survived, I wouldn't be the only one who has to deal with Mycroft and his hateful treats."

John gazed away. "So you had another brother?"

"Stillborn," said Sherlock and turned to John. "His name was  _John_."


	18. He's Special

"Dad cheated on mummy-" John trailed off and stared at his brother. "Richard was unfaithful?"

Mycroft sipped more of the offered tea John had made and shifted on the chair. It was not an easy topic of conversation, neither was it easy to tell John, the man who he considered was his little brother that their father had had two affairs with his respective secretary an a colleague. Mycroft knew Sherlock had always known, of course. In fact, Sherlock had deduced it and had known it since he was very little, almost a teenager, and he never told John. John was very fond of their father. Richard had always loved John, he had always supported him and somehow patted his back when he announced once afternoon when he was a merely thirteen-year-old boy that he wanted to be a soldier.

"Yes. Two times. One week with a young secretary and then two months with a colleague of his," explained Mycroft, as if it had been the most natural thing to explain.

John caught his breath. He had always considered Richard as a good hearted man who loved their mummy deeply. It was obvious he loved her. Richard was always taking their mummy abroad on holiday every time he had one or two days off. He gave her expensive necklaces, flowers, cars - everything Elizabeth wanted, Richard was there to please her.

"You knew."

Mycroft nodded. "Obviously."

"Sherlock knew."

"He had always known."

"And why he never told me?"

Mycroft frowned. "Why don't you ask him?"

"You know I can't."

"He chose not to tell you because he wanted to protect you," Mycroft said calmly. "You loved our father. And he loved you too. Do you really think Sherlock would have wanted to see you, shall we say, heartbroken knowing our father was unfaithful to our mother?"

John chose not to say a word this time. He sunk into the armchair. The empty cup on his hand felt light and if it hadn't been because it was Mrs Hudson's, John would have slammed it against the wall. John couldn't live knowing Sherlock was his brother, that they were finally together liked they used to, like they used to when they were kids, together all day long, but now they were complete strangers. They barely spoke to each other. Sherlock was away most of the day and John just stared at the black armchair in the living room, that dark armchair Sherlock had bought for him when they were living together years ago before he had left to Afghanistan.

"If it's any consolation, remember father always went back to our house at the end of the day, to his bed with mummy, to us. Those... adventures were nothing," said Mycroft softly.

John decided to change the subject. "He talked about mummy too."

"He's hurt. He thinks she did it on purpose. That she _left_  him on purpose."

"Why does he think that?" John asked confusedly. "What else did he forget?"

Mycroft took a deep breath. This was not going to be easy. But John needed to know.

He couldn't lie to John anymore.

"He thinks the doctor who looked after mummy killed her."

John wanted to cry. Because he had been the doctor looking after mummy, prescribing her medications, taking her pulse, listening to her heart, making himself sure she was fine.

And now Sherlock thought he had been the one who killed their mummy.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson said there was someone who wanted to see me," said Sherlock as he opened the door. "Getting John to make you tea?"

John looked away. He stood up and offered his hand to Mycroft. "Good afternoon, Mr Holmes."

"Thanks for the tea, Doctor Watson."

John put his jacket on and left.

Mycroft looked how Sherlock ran to the windows and watched John walking down the streets.

"What are you doing here?" hissed Sherlock angrily. "Making yourself sure I'm not injecting myself again?"

Mycroft nodded. And this only made Sherlock feel angrier. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing."

Sherlock sat on his own chair and glued his hands together under his chin. "Threatening him like the others?"

"Doctor Watson is different from the others," admitted Mycroft, fixing his eyes on hi own umbrella. "I know he will keep you sane."

Sherlock curled his lips slightly upwards into a little smile. "Jealous?"

"Of an ordinary, army doctor?" Mycroft asked sarcastically.

"John is not ordinary."

Mycroft stared at his little brother. There was something in his eyes... something that made Mycroft feel relieved John had finally come back to them, to take care and keep Sherlock sane. Because what Sherlock needed was John - his brother.

But there was something else.

Something Mycroft didn't like. Or at least he knew he was not going to like at all.

"You have grown quite fond of Doctor Watson," Mycroft said, just a simple comment.

But he wished he wouldn't have said that.

Because Sherlock's answer was the last thing Mycroft had wanted to hear.

"John is different. He's special," Sherlock said softly, not looking at his brother but at the door, as if John would come back in at any moment soon. "He keeps me  _entertained_."

Mycroft laughed sarcastically. "Does he?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock almost panted. "And not so many  _men_  had done that in the past."


	19. Jealous

"Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?"

John shifted on his chair as his eyes fell on the man sitting across them.

"Right. You're doing that thing," Sebastian said to Sherlock and then looked at John. "We were at uni together. This guy here had a  _trick_  he used to do -"

"It's not a  _trick_." Sherlock said, defending himself.

John remained silent.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story."

"Yes, I've seen him do it."

Sebastian nodded just slightly. "Put the wind up everybody. We  _hated_  him."

Without even turning his head and looking into Sherlock's eyes, John knew his brother was hurt by this man's words.

John knew who this man was. Sebastian Wilkes had been one of Sherlock's acquaintances back in uni. The man was studying Economics when Sherlock was studying Chemistry and John Medicine. John never got to talk to him or see him, but he knew him only by name.

Everything fell into its place now. Now John understood why Sherlock never liked to go out with his classmates and his few acquaintances.

_'We hated him.'_

_"_ You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you'd been  _shagging_  the previous night."

Sherlock looked at Sebastian straight in the eye. "I simply observed."

"Go on, enlighten me. Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world - you're quite right. How could you tell?" Sebastian asked smugly. "You're gonna tell me there was a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"

John faked a smile.

This man was stupid.

"No, I -"

"Maybe it was the mud on my shoes." Sebastian said, cutting Sherlock off, and smiling again.

John curled his lips upwards, just slightly, when he felt Sherlock's eyes on Sebastian. "I was just chatting with your secretary outside.  _She_  told me."

Sebastian laughed.  
 _  
_

* * *

"I went to see about a job at that surgery."

"How was it?" Sherlock asked, not so interested on John but on the case they were working on.

John couldn't help but smile. Sarah, the doctor in charge, was lovely. She was more than lovely. She was amazing, sweet, the kind of woman John fancied.

God, he liked her so much.

"It's great. She's great."

Sherlock frowned and turned to see him for the first time in the day. "Who?"

John bit his lip. "The job."

" _She?_ "

"It."

John watched Sherlock twisting his mouth and continuing writing down his own notes. John remembered being asked thousands and thousands of questions every time he had a date. When they lived together years ago Sherlock would always find an excuse to not to let him go to see his girlfriends, and Sherlock would even appear in the middle of his dates lying he was in pain, that Mummy had called and needed to talk to him, that Mycroft had again threatened him with telling their parents about their sometimes unhealthy food habits.

John remembered old times.

And he even smiled a bit.

_But he was so wrong._

* * *

It turned out that the simple death of an important employee of a Bank was a murder and that this man was involved in a web of Chinese smugglers.

And now they were not looking for the killer but for clues.

The damn killer left two numbers. Codes.

Damn.

"So, the numbers are references."

John nodded. "To books."

"To specific pages and specific words on those pages."

"Right. So..." John looked at the boxes of books. "Fifteen and one... that means -"

"Turn to page fifteen and it's the first word you read." The detective explained.

"OK. So what's the message?"

"Depends on the book. That's the cunning of the book  _code_. Has to be one that they both owned."

John looked around the flat and sighed. There were boxes of books from the banker's and from another victim. Apparently the killer was leaving codes in the crime scenes and apparently both victims had the same books.

* * *

John smiled to himself as he made his way into the living room, only to find Sherlock's tired expression, his long fingers messing his dark curls and looking completely desperate.

"I need to get some air.  _We_ 're going out tonight."

John smiled. "Actually, I've got a date," the doctor announced, without really caring the meaning of his words.

And without caring about the man in front of him.

"What?"

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."

John only smiled even widely, because this reminded him of his first date. He was seventeen and he was going out with one girl from school. He had spent more than an hour in the bathroom, trying to comb his hair when Sherlock shouted he had to cancel the date because the girl was not going to sleep with him.

"That's what  _I_  was suggesting."

"No it wasn't. At least I  _hope_  not."

Sherlock looked at him, slightly angry.

John ignored him.

_He shouldn't have._

"Where are you taking  _her_?"

"Cinema."

"Oh, dull, boring, predictable," the detective said walking towards him and handed him a piece of paper. "Why don't you try this?"

John looked at the paper. It was a Chinese circus and the first thing that got to John's mind was clowns, very silly clowns and tigers inside cages and an elephant with the ability to stand in one foot.

"Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice."

* * *

That night, Sherlock sat on the sofa and stared at the map of pictures of both crimes scenes he and John had seen, a list of the books the victims had in common and at the symbols left.

And at John moving from one place to another within the flat.

Sherlock had observed John closely. He knew the doctor was not an ordinary man at all. John Watson was different, so common, so pedestrian, but yet he was so different and so fascinating.

To Sherlock John Watson was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

The detective could swear he had met this man before. He felt as if he knew John after living a whole lifetime together, but they had only been living together for merely two months.

_"John is different. He's special," Sherlock said softly, not looking at his brother but at the door, as if John would come back in at any moment soon. "He keeps me entertained."_

_Mycroft laughed sarcastically. "Does he?"_

_"Oh yes," Sherlock almost panted. "And not so many men had done that in the past."_

Sherlock had really meant it.

John was entertaining him as no man had done before.

Sherlock _wanted_  John so badly.

John Watson was nothing like the man he had had before. Victor Trevor, his latest lover, was all the opposite. Well, John was all the opposite if compared to Victor.

Victor Trevor liked science, classical music, good wine, horses... Victor had been one of the posh men that were always behind Sherlock's steps - hanging on his finger, waiting to be allowed in his bed.

They had all been so boring.

But Victor had been the exception.

Tall, slender, toned where he needed to be, good taste, soft lips, important.

With Victor Sherlock could calmly drink an entire bottle of wine and go straight to bed and have sex all night long.

But John was all the opposite.

John Watson was short. He was an army doctor - wounded, discarded because apparently he was useless to his country. John liked beer, football, cars, stupid things Neanderthal men liked.

_John liked women._

John was common, boring, predicable sometimes.

But oh God, Sherlock knew that man was hiding something - keeping something glorious from him.

John might be  _bi_.

And Sherlock was determined to have John Watson on his bed.

* * *

"Hi. I have two tickets reserved for tonight."

"And what's the name?"

John bit his lip. "Holmes."

"Actually, I have three in that name," the manager said.

"No, I don't think so. We only booked two -"

"And then I phoned back and got one for myself as well," Sherlock said, cutting John off and looking at Sarah. There was a fake smile across his face. "I'm Sherlock."

Both men immediately realised she was nervous, a very tiny little bit angry knowing John's flatmate was there.

In their date.

Sherlock hated her.

"Hi."

Once Sarah left to the loo, John decided to let Sherlock know it was a lot not good to follow your brother- your  _flatmate_  to his dates.

 _"_ You couldn't let me have just one night off?"

"We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope. Where else would you find that level of dexterity? Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Now, all I need to do is have a quick look round the place -"

"Fine. You do that; I'm gonna take Sarah for a pint."

Sherlock frowned. "I  _need_  your help."

"I do have a couple of other things on my mind this evening!" John snapped, angrily.

"Like what?"

"You're kidding."

Sherlock shook his head. "What's so important?"

"Sherlock, I'm right in the middle of a  _date_. Do you want me to chase some killer while I'm trying to -"

The detective felt exasperated now. "What?"

"While I'm trying to get off with Sarah!- hey!"

The woman was smiling, fucking smiling behind John.

"Ready?"

Sherlock knew he had to do something.

And quickly.

* * *

"Is it just me, or is anyone else starving?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He had the need to kill that woman. "Oh, God."

The detective felt the Doctor saying soothingly words to that useless woman.

But instead of 'getting the message' this Sarah woman was far from it.

"So this is what you do, you and John. You solve puzzles for a living."

Sherlock bit his lip. "Consulting detective."

"Oh."

This was awkward.

"What are these squiggles?"

the detective felt like killing her.

"They're numbers. An ancient Chinese dialect."

The woman laughed nervously. "Oh, right! Yeah, well, of course I should have known that."

Stupid.

"So these numbers – it's a cipher."

"Exactly."

"And each pair of numbers is a word."

What?

"How did you know that?" Sherlock asked surprised she had some brains inside her skull.

"Well, two words have already been translated, here," Sarah said, pointing at the already translated symbols.

"John!" Sherlock shouted. "John, look at this!" The detective pointed at the picture in his hands. "Soo Lin at the museum – she started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it!"

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock was putting on his coat. "To the museum; to the restoration room. Oh, we must have been staring right at it!"

"At what?!" John asked, not knowing what his brother was talking about.

"The  _book_ , John," Sherlock said as if what he had said was the most stupid thing in the world. "The  _book_  – the key to cracking the cipher! Soo Lin used it to do this! Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk."

* * *

It didn't take much to the detective to decipher the code. Each pair of numbers referred to the famous London A to Z. The first number was the page and the second the reference.

He wanted to impress John.

"John! John! I've got it!" Sherlock ran into the kitchen. "The cipher! The book! It's the London A to Z that they're using -"

God, no.

The living room windows were painted.

_DEAD MAN._

* * *

John opened his eyes. He found himself tied to a chair. He knew he had been hit on the head.

He felt himself dying.

"Chinese proverb, Mr. Holmes..."

The army doctor panicked.

"I... I'm  _not_  Holmes."


	20. Victor

"You mind, don't you?" John asked.

A mug with tea on his hands, his blue eyes on his brother's and toasts and jam thanks to Mrs Hudson's good heart.

The detective felt like melting inside. "What?"

"That she escaped," John said. "General Shan. It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."

"It must be a vast network, John. Thousands of operatives. You and I," Sherlock's eyes were on the papers he was reading. "we barely scratched the surface."

John nodded. "But you cracked the code, though, Sherlock. And maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now that he knows it."

"No. I cracked this code. All the smugglers have to do is pick up another book."

Sherlock got in time and saved John and Sarah. They got the henchmen, but the woman, the leader, ran away. They solved the case of the strange death of Eddie Van Coon and they got quite a generous cheque from Sebastian Wilkes. Apparently Van Coon used his trips to China to make business to do another kind of business, being a smuggler, taking those Chinese treasures illegally to England. Van Coon got a bit carried away and decided to keep something that was not his - and he paid it with his life.

"I'm going out," John said, washing his mug and then taking his coat. "Need anything from the shops?"

Sherlock turned to him. "I thought you had a date."

John pulled a face.

Oh.

_Oh._

"Samantha left you?"

John rolled his eyes. "Her name was Sarah."

The detective showed no emotion whatsoever.

"Need anything?" John repeated.

"I might need something, yes," the detective stood up and picked up his coat. "It'd be better to go and fetch it myself."

The doctor frowned. "You don't like shopping."

Sherlock looked at him.

"I can get it for you."

"Oh no," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "I rather get it myself. You won't know which type."

They walked side by side to the nearest shop. It was a quiet Sunday morning, those quite of mornings John enjoyed far too much indeed. The side of the city was strangely deserted, no cars, no crowds moving to and fro but calmness, soft steps and noises.

Calm.

"Why milk? We don't need milk."

"You don't need milk. I do," John said as he picked up the milk. "When was the last time you ate anything with calcium? It could be yoghurt, milk, cheese -"

"Boring."

John licked his lips. "It's not boring, it's vital. You need calcium for your bones."

"Irrelevant. Besides, why would I need calcium? For God's sake, I'm thirty-two."

"It doesn't matter your age," John scolded him.

Sherlock guided John to another aisle. "Speaking like Mycroft, you. When Mother and Father died Mycroft insisted on being 'Mummy'," the detective's eyes were focused on the things he needed. "Always saying what was good for me or not."

John felt his chest ache, but soon the feeling disappeared when he realised in which aisle they were and what Sherlock was looking for.

"He still does," Sherlock said, throwing a box of condoms and a small bottle of lube into the shopping basket John was carrying. "He should get himself a child or a dog if he wishes to own something to look after."

The way the cashier looked at them made John blush. His blue eyes wanted to look everywhere but at the box of condoms Sherlock had picked up - larger size and peach flavoured lube.

God.

Did Sherlock have a girlfriend John never knew about?

Mycroft never said a word about it.

Once they were back to the flat neither said a word. John watched telly, lots of telly, sent some emails to his sister and to some of his buds in the Army, then watched a Bond film and ate dinner alone. Sherlock said he wasn't hungry and focused most of them day on his experiments.

"Going to sleep."

"Hmm."

John licked his lips. "OK, then, er, g'night."

Sherlock said no word.

Fifteen minutes later John was in his room, warm on his bed, his eyes closed and trying to conceive some sleep when he heard voices coming from upstairs. John was used to listen to Sherlock playing the violin at insane hours of the night, or even talking to the skull...

But this time John could hear  _voices_.

John opened the door of his room and listened.

* * *

"Are we alone?"

Sherlock shook his head, taking his blue dressing gown off. "My flatmate's upstairs."

"Sher," Victor purred. "Why you insist on living here?" the man walked towards Sherlock and pushed him until he was sitting on the sofa. "You know you could come with me. I can even get you a nice and a bigger flat than this."

The detective's eyes fell on Victor's. "I like here."

"We'll have to be quiet tonight -"

Sherlock grabbed Victor by the collar of his ridiculously expensive shirt and kissed him feverishly, as if his life depended on that kiss and even moaned.

The detective knew they were being watched.

* * *

OK.

The first thing John thought - oh, you poor innocent John - is that this man was some sort of friend.

But then John remembered Sherlock does not have friends.

The man was tall, as tall as Sherlock was. He looked important - like the CEO of some company or even like some Duke. He was slender, but he had long arms and legs - toned body. He looked like a man who could fight.

"You know you could come with me. I can even get you a nice and a bigger flat than this."

A friend who wanted Sherlock to live in a better place?

"I like here."

And then, John walked just a few steps more and then he saw him.

John saw Sherlock throwing his arms around that man's neck and kissing him, passionately.

Sherlock kissing another man.

Passionately.

And moaning.

" _Fuck_   _me_ , Victor."

Oh God.

* * *

" _Fuck me_ , Victor."

Victor smiled. "I thought you didn't like me."

"I don't," Sherlock purred. "I need something from you."

"My cock?" Victor asked hoarsely, moving his hips so Sherlock could feel his hard member. "You need my cock, Sher?"

The detective turned to the stairs. There was no one to be seen.

"Yes." Sherlock chuckled. "My room, now."

* * *

Oh God.

John pressed a hand to his mouth.

"I need something from you."

"My cock?"

John heard Sherlock moaning again. The doctor went back to his room, as quietly as he could and closed the door behind his back. He pressed a hand to his mouth.

He didn't know Sherlock was gay.

* * *

"Fuck," Sherlock panted and thrust his hips back. "Fuck me harder."

Victor's grip on the detective's hips tightened. "Harder? You sure?"

"Yes."

The man did as he had been asked.

Sherlock moaned loudly every time Victor hit his prostate with his long fat cock.

"Your flatmate could be listening."

Sherlock chuckled. "I don't... ahhh... care... ahhhhhhh yes!"

"Did he fuck you?" Victor asked.

"No..." Sherlock breathed heavily. "Not  _yet_... ahhh!"

Victor bent down and rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder blades. "Would you like him to?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock panted. "I  _want_  him."

"Do you _like_  him?"

Sherlock bit his lip. "Fuck... ahhhh  _yes_!"


	21. Puzzles

"You never told me -"

"It was obvious," Mycroft said, cutting John off. "It surprises me you haven't deduced it already."

John was angry. "I do not deduce."

"It was  _obvious_ , John."

"Obvious?"

Mycroft nodded. "Has he ever introduced you to any sort of... woman, shall we say?"

John shook his head.

"And have you ever seen him with a woman? Has Sherlock ever talked to you about one?"

"No."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Our brother had always fancied men, John."

"Don't say it like that!"

"Like what?"

John gasped. "Are you fucking kidding me, Myc?" The doctor said angrily. "You're speaking of Sherlock's sexuality as if it'd been the most obvious thing in the world!"

"Mummy and Father knew."

"What?"

Mycroft nodded. "Everyone knew."

"Everyone but me."

"Maybe you didn't want to see it," Mycroft suggested. "Or maybe you didn't want to  _accept_  it."

John ran a hand over his face. "Look, I don't have anything against homosexuality."

" _Obviously_."

"I..." John trailed off. "How did you - ? Never mind."

Mycroft's eyes were on his younger brother. "Sexuality shouldn't be something to be embarrassed of, John."

"I fucking know that, Mycroft!" John said, exasperated.

Mycroft had always known. It had always been so obvious. Not as if Sherlock was an obvious homosexual who liked to wear his Mummy's shoes and dresses and try make up. But that was only a cliché. Sherlock had always been a boy who liked to look at boys. His parents and even Mycroft thought it was just a phase - confusion. But Sherlock reached his teenage years, then he was reaching adulthood when once by just looking at him you could tell he had been in another man's bed.

And that Sherlock was afraid of saying so.

Mycroft never asked but he knew both of their parents were fine with it. If Sherlock was happy that way, then they were happy as well.

Sherlock had been this close to tell everyone about his sexuality when their mother died and John joined the Army.

And that was one of the triggers that caused Sherlock to lose his own mind, do drugs and finally forget half of his own life.

"John, I need you to understand Sherlock's intimate life is not what you are thinking."

John looked at his older brother. "What am I thinking?"

"That our brother is a promiscuous homosexual."

"I don't think that -"

"Then," Mycroft cut him off. "You're surprised he's gay and that you never knew."

John said nothing.

"Sherlock had a boyfriend when Mummy died and when you left to Afghanistan."

"What?"

Mycroft swallowed. "Sherlock wanted to tell everyone, but he was afraid," the politician sighed. "It happened when Mummy died and when you joined the army."

John remained silent.

"The man was several years older than him. He was married and had children about Sherlock's age."

"You knew?" John asked. "You knew and you didn't say a fucking word?"

Mycroft shifted on the chair. "I knew nothing -" the politician sighed. "I knew nothing at that specific moment."

"And what happened?"

"You already know that. He did drugs."

John shook his head. "What happened to Sherlock's boyfriend?"

"He left Sherlock."

John couldn't believe it. When they lived together Sherlock used to disappear every now and then for several hours, sometimes most of the day and even for a weekend or just for one day. John always thought that maybe Sherlock was on a case, just walking around, or maybe with some 'girl' but now he understood.

And John couldn't help but feel so guilty. He blamed himself - because he should have known what his brother felt, what Sherlock was going through and he should have helped him.

How could he have been so blind?

"He had some lovers... nothing to be worried about," Mycroft added. "But the man you saw, Victor, he's different."

"What d'you mean?"

"Sherlock has Victor wrapped around his finger. He doesn't love him, he doesn't want him either. Sherlock only  _plays_  with him."

John nodded. "Yeah, I had to listen to them for a whole night."

"Ha-ha," Mycroft laughed sarcastically. "I've seen and heard worst, believe me."

"Ugh, don't tell me you actually saw Sherlock -" John rolled his eyes. "Myc, for God's sake!"

"I ought to take care of our brother," Mycroft said. "He likes  _dangerous_  men."

John said nothing.

They shared a nice but awkward silence just for a moment.

"Sherlock wants you."

John's eyes widened. "What?!"

"He has found you fascinating, and not so many men had done so."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Mycroft's green eyes were on John's. "That he has found you sexually attractive."

"Myc, this isn't funny."

"I do not 'joke'," Mycroft said. "And Sherlock bringing his sex toy to Baker Street and having loud sex wasn't casual. He's trying to get you into his bed. And he will do it."

John gasped angrily. "We're brothers!"

"Technically speaking, it wouldn't be incest."

"Mycroft, please!" John hissed. "I can't -"

"I'm not asking you to get into our brother's bed and satisfy him," Mycroft said, somehow angrily. "I'm merely warning you. Because Sherlock does not stop until he gets what he wants. You know that. He insisted for more than five years until Mummy got him that skull."

John covered his face with his hands because he knew Mycroft was right. Sherlock always got what he wanted. Always.

But John was certain he would never end up on his brother's bed.

No.

Never.

* * *

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Bored," Sherlock replied from his chair.

He was sulking again.

"What?"

"Bored!" Sherlock shot again. "Bored!" Another shot. "Bored!"

John ran to him and took his gun odd his hands.

"Don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them."

The doctor rolled his eyes. "So you take it out on the wall."

"Ah, the wall had it coming."

John's blue eyes fell on Sherlock. The detective was lying on the sofa, sprawled, sulking, and John remembered the talk he had with Mycroft.

_"Sherlock wants you."_

"Anything in? I'm starving -" John opened the door of the fridge and then closed the door shut again when he realised there was a human head, on a silver plate, inside their fridge. "Oh fuck -" John opened the door again and looked at the head. Yes, it was an actual human head! "It's a head. It's a severed head!"

"Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock said dismissively.

John returned to the living room. "No, there's a head in the fridge!"

"Yes."

"A bloody head!"

"Well, where else was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock asked sarcastically. "You don't mind, do you? Having a head..." John looked at him. "In the fridge? I got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death."

Sherlock turned his head to see John was sitting on his chair, his hands buried on his hands.

"I see you've written up the taxi driver case."

"Yeah."

"'A Study in Pink'," Sherlock said. "Nice."

John nodded. "Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone, there was a lot of pink. Did you like it?"

"No."

"Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."

"Flattered?" Sherlock asked angrily. " _'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'_ " The detective knew the words by heart.

John licked his lip. "No, hang on a minute. I didn't mean that in a -"

"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a  _nice_  way?" Sherlock asked, sitting on the sofa. "Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister or who's sleeping with who -"

"Whether the Earth goes round the Sun -"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not that  _again_. It's not important."

"Not important -" John shifted on the chair to look at Sherlock properly. "It's primary school stuff. How can you not know that?"

"Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it."

"Deleted it?"

"Yes!" Sherlock said, exasperated. "This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful -  _really_  useful. Ordinary people, like you, fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

John nodded. He remembered Sherlock complaining when they were little about going to school to learn the Solar System. Sherlock told their parents it was meaningless. John said it was fascinating. And of course he knew how Sherlock's brain worked.

Sherlock had deleted him.

"But it's the solar system!"

"Oh, hell! What does that  _matter_? So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots." Sherlock went back to his position flat on the sofa, but with his back to John. "Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world."

John watched Sherlock curling into a ball, giving his back to him.

It hurt.

But it reminded him of their days as teenagers, when John had dates and Sherlock stayed at home.

God.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked when he turned to see John walking to the door. "You just got home."

_'You just got home.'_

"Out. I need some air."

"Oh-oh!" Mrs Hudson smiled when she realised his tenant was sulking. "Have you two had a little domestic?"

Sherlock walked to the window and looked at John crossing the street.

"Oh, it's a bit nippy out there. He should have wrapped himself up a bit more."

"Look at that, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said, his eyes still focused on John's form, walking away from him. "Quiet, calm, peaceful. Isn't it  _hateful_?"

"Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder that'll cheer you up."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Can't  _happen_  too soon."

* * *

"Goodbye, John," Mycroft said smiling. "See you  _very_  soon."

John sighed and glanced at Sherlock. The detective looked angry. Almost jealous.

"Why'd you lie? You've got nothing on, not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

Mycroft had come to Sherlock after the explosion because apparently some 'Westie' lost an important memory stick with information - some 'plans' of the government. Sherlock refused to help saying he was busy so finally Mycroft left John in charge of it.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Oh, I see."

Sherlock looked at him confusedly.

"Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

"Why are you obsessed with Mycroft? He's hateful, annoying, ugly," Sherlock said, half angrily. "You're always thinking I'm rude to him."

"Because you are," John said. "He's your brother. At least you have one who cares about you."

Sherlock shrugged. "You don't even care about your sister, the drinker."

It felt like a knife in his heart.

Sherlock's phone chimed. "Sherlock Holmes."

And John watched Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"Of course. How could I refuse?" The detective finished the call and stood up. "Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?"

John licked his lip. "If you want me to."

"Of course," Sherlock said, opening the door for John. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

* * *

"Carl Powers."

John frowned. "Sorry, who?"

"Carl Powers, John," Sherlock repeated. "You don't remember?"

Of course John remembered. It was Christmas Day, they had unwrapped their presents and they were watching telly together when they saw it on the news. A boy about their age died drowned in a swimming competition in a pool in Bristol. The reporters were explaining that apparently the kid, Carl Powers, suffered an epilepsy attack during the competition and no one could save him. John recognised the kid immediately when the photo appeared in the screen. He was their classmate.

_"He didn't had epilepsy. Someone killed him."_

Little Sherlock ran to Mycroft, to his mother and even to his father saying all his deductions leaded to the conclusion someone killed Carl Powers and that he had to call the police. All of them couldn't help him, not because they doubted about his deductive skills, they weren't fools not to notice Sherlock's intelligence, but they knew the police would refuse to hear an under-age kid with deductive skills. After that, Sherlock was angry. He knew someone killed Carl Powers and he really wanted to prove it, but no one cared about it but John.

John sat next to him on his bed and squeezed his hand reassuringly.

Sherlock told his brother all his deductions and how he knew the kid was murdered.

_"It's all fine, Sherlock. I believe you."_

John knew he couldn't tell Sherlock about that night many, but many years ago. "What is it?"

"It's where I began. The curtain rises."

"What?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing."

"No," John insisted. "What did you mean?"

"I've been expecting this for some time." Sherlock's phone chimed. "Pass me my phone."

"Where is it?"

"Jacket."

John blushed. He walked towards Sherlock and started patting his jacket, slightly angrily.

"Careful!"

John bit his lower lip. He found Sherlock's mobile on the pocket inside his jacket. He could feel how warm Sherlock felt and the detective slightly moaned when John slid his hand into his jacket.

God.

"Text from your brother."

"Delete it."

John was confused. "Delete it?"

"Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it."

 **Any progress on Andrew**   **West's death?**  -  **MH**

"Well, Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times. Must be important."

Sherlock sighed exasperated. "Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

"His what?"

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this - why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"

"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die."

Sherlock looked up at John. "What for? This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"

John looked away.

"Mycroft said he cried by my side. See how  _good_  it did to me."

The doctor remained silent.

"Any luck?"

It was Molly Hooper.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock said happily.

Behind Molly was a man, a man neither John nor Sherlock had seen before.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock was still working on his microscope, not looking at Molly and not even at the man she was introducing them to.

"John Watson. Hi," John said politely.

The man smiled. "Hi." He looked at Sherlock. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me _all_  about you. You on one of your cases?"

Sherlock remained silent.

"Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance," Molly commented awkwardly.

"Gay."

Molly's eyes widened. "What?"

Sherlock turned. "Nothing. Um,  _hey_."

Jim dropped a metal dish to the floor.

God, it was so awkward.

"Sorry! Sorry!"

No one said a word.

"Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, 'bout six-ish?"

Molly smiled. "Yeah!"

The man smiled at Sherlock. "Bye."

Sherlock remained silent.

John knew he was trying to flirt with Sherlock.

And it was so painfully awkward.

"What d'you mean, gay?" Molly asked, as soon as Jim left the lab. "We're together."

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"Two and a half."

"No,  _three_ ," Sherlock corrected her.

John sighed. "Sherlock -"

"He's  _not_  gay. Why d'you have to spoil -" Molly said angrily. "He's  _not_."

"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock asked almost mockingly.

John gasped. "Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair."

"You  _wash_  your hair. There's a difference. No - tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines. Those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

Molly frowned. "His  _underwear_?"

"Visible above the waistline –  _very_  visible. Very particular brand," Sherlock said and then took the paper left under the dish Jim had dropped. "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly was close to tears when she ran away the lag, slamming the door shut.

"Charming. Well done."

"Just saving her time," Sherlock said calmly. "Isn't that kinder?"

"Kinder?" John asked sarcastically. "No, no, Sherlock.  _That_  wasn't kind."

* * *

"So why's he doing this, then – playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to be caught?"

Sherlock smiled from his chair. "I think he wants to be distracted."

"I hope you'll be very happy  _together_."

Sherlock turned to him. "Sorry, what?"

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual  _human_  lives… Just -" John was angry. "Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them?"

"No."

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"And you find that easy, do you?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, very. Is that news to you?"

"No." John said, with a bitter smile.

"I've  _disappointed_  you."

John smiled even widely, but bitterly. "That's a  _good_  deduction, yes."

John was disappointed because this Sherlock was nothing like the Sherlock he used to be. The Sherlock he knew was not like this. The old Sherlock cared, had feelings, smiled, loved his family. This Sherlock was all the opposite. This Sherlock never cared, had no feelings, never smiled and hated Mycroft.

And John wondered if Sherlock hated him too.

Because there had been many people taken as hostages, a fake painting, an old lady died and Sherlock seemed not to care at all.

And it hurt.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

* * *

"No, no, no! Of course he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"

John chuckled from behind. "Knew it was dangerous."

"Hmm?"

"Getting you into crap telly."

Sherlock nodded slightly. "Hmm. Not a patch on Connie Prince."

"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?"

"Yes. He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood. Again."

John smiled. "You know, I'm still waiting."

"Hmm?"

"For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, it didn't do you any good, did it?"

"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective."

"True."

"I won't be in for tea. I'm going to Sarah's," John said, standing up and heading to the door. "There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge."

There was a look of pain in Sherlock's eyes. "Hmm."

"Uh, milk. We need milk."

"I'll get some."

John frowned. "Really?"

"Really."

"And some beans, then?" John asked, knowing Sherlock would probably say no or protest.

"Yes."

John left.

The detective pulled out his computer and typed a message on his website.

**Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect.**

**The Pool. Midnight.**

Finally, he was going to meet not only Carl Powers' killer, but also the man behind the game.


	22. Demons and Memories

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles," Sherlock said and smiled. "making me dance... all to distract me from this."

He was standing alone in a pool. In the same pool an old classmate had died more than twenty years ago, 'drowned'. Sherlock remembered telling everyone about it - that Carl Powers hadn't died - that he had been _killed_.

But no one listened to him.

No one.

Or that's what Sherlock thought. Because what the detective ignored and not because he wanted to but because he couldn't to was that John was there with him. John held his hand and smiled at him, reassuringly, softly, tenderly and told him he did  _believe_  in him.

But John was not in Sherlock's memories any more.

Sherlock held the memory stick up and paced in a circle... and when he was not looking a door was opened.

No.

John?

What?

"Evening."

Sherlock looked at his flatmate, at his blogger, at the man he was starting to consider a 'friend' and at the man he liked.

"John?"

John said no word.

"John?" Sherlock repeated, not believing what his eyes were seeing.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John said clenching his teeth trying to say with his face what he couldn't with his voice - that they were in danger and that he had nothing to do with what was happening. "Bet you never saw  _this_  coming."

And for a moment, John watched Sherlock's facial features softening - and for a moment Sherlock was again that young man John remembered.

That young man who laughed and loved his family.

Sherlock listened to John trying to say something under his breath.

"Run."

"No," Sherlock said, stepping closer to John. "Not without  _you_."

Oh God.

The doctor opened the jacket he was wearing and showed Sherlock the reason why he wanted him to run.

John was carrying a bomb.

"Sherlock, run," John muttered under his breath, tightly. " _Please_ , run."

"John -"

There was a red dot dancing around John's chest and a single tear rolled down the doctor's pale face. John was not going to let Sherlock die. John was going to save his brother. He was determined to do what he should have done years ago - he knew he should have stayed with Sherlock and never join the army. John knew he had been the reason why his brother, his brother Sherlock who had always felt more like a 'biological' brother than anything else in the world hurt himself, did drugs and almost lost his own mind.

As they were the same age they had been always told they were more like twin brothers who had grown together in their mother's belly than two boys who were born separately, and from different mothers. And even when they knew they were not real siblings, that never mattered, because both loved each other.

"What... would you like me.. to make him say... next?" John said almost reluctantly, repeating the words he was being told. "Gottle o'gear... gottle o'gear... gottle o'gear..."

"Stop it!"

John wiped the tears off his face. "Nice touch, this... the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him," the doctor felt like dying because he had seen the news and they knew Carl Powers... and this maniac killed him. "I can stop John Watson too," John looked down to the red dot on his chest. "Stop his  _heart_."

Sherlock looked around, trying to find the sniper but everything was dark. "Who  _are_  you? Why are you doing this?"

There was a door being opened.

And an Irish accent.

"I gave you my number... I thought you  _might_  call."

It was Jim from IT. It was Jim, Molly's boyfriend.

Jim... the man who  _flirted_  with Sherlock.

"Is that British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket..." Jim almost sang and Sherlock reached for John's gun from his pocket. "or are you just pleased to see me?"

John looked into Sherlock's eyes.

They were dark.

Almost scary.

" _Both_."

The man smiled. "Jim Moriarty," he chuckled. "Hi!"

Sherlock and John remained silent. "I know, right?" Jim said, faking a surprise tone. "Jim? Jim from the hospital? Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that  _was_  rather the point."

The dot on John's chest moved up to his forehead. And Sherlock felt his heart beating faster.

"Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." Jim took a deep breath and let out a long sigh, and smiled to the detective. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big  _bad_  world. I'm a specialist, you see..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Like you!"

"Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?" Sherlock said sarcastically, still aiming to Jim's head. "Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

Jim nodded.

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock smiled. "Brilliant."

"Isn't it? No one ever gets to me and no one ever will."

" _I_  did."

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

Jim frowned. "Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting is over, Sherlock..." Jim smiled darkly and his perverse eyes danced between the detective and the doctor. "Daddy's had enough now!"

What seemed to have started as a game... a game in which both men were trying to read each other changed when Jim's eyes fixed on John, on the man everyone thought was Sherlock's flatmate and who a few had mistaken as Sherlock's boyfriend.

But Jim knew there was not all.

Jim knew that was just a lie.

Because Jim knew who John really was.

John Hamish Watson was just a fake name... a name written on a fake ID Mycroft Holmes once got the doctor when he joined the army. John didn't want to be a Holmes in Afghanistan because he didn't want people to know his father had been the PM. And therefore, John didn't want to be treated differently from his mates. John Watson was meant to die once John returned to London, but Sherlock had a collapse and he had deleted John.

John Hamish Holmes died the day Sherlock told him he was nothing. And now the only person left was John Hamish Watson.

Jim knew it.

And dear Sherlock was going to knew it as well.

"I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play..." Jim walked towards them until he was standing next to John. "So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off. Although I have  _loved_  this... this little game of ours... Playing Jim from IT," Jim smiled widely, darkly. "Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear? Oh but I'm not your type, am I?"

"Shut up."

"Oh," Jim's eyes widened. "But little Johnny here knows."

"Don't -"

"Have you told him?" Jim asked, cutting Sherlock off. "Have you told him how much you want him?"

Sherlock's eyes moved to John just for a moment.

And he saw a pink blush on John's cheeks and tears in his blue eyes.

"People have died," Sherlock said, changing the subject.

"That's what people  _DO_!" Jim screamed, angrily, furiously.

Sherlock shook his head. _"_ I  _will_  stop you."

"No, you won't!" Jim sang, returning back to soft.

This was madness.

"You all right?"

Jim smiled to John. "You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead."

John nodded, miserably.

"Take it," Sherlock said, holding the memory stick for Jim to take it. "Take it and let him go. This is between you and me."

"The missile plans!" Jim took the memory stick off Sherlock's hands but threw it to the pool. "Boring!" The consulting criminal bit his lip and smiled, his eyes focused on John. "What about you, Johnny? Have you told Sherly?"

"Tell me what?"

John shook his head. "Nothing."

"Your little secret... because you've got a secret you've been keeping from dear Sherlock for  _years_."

Sherlock frowned. His grey eyes moved from John to Jim, but he was still holding the gun and aiming at Jim's head. "Shut up."

"It's a secret about him..." Jim whispered. "and about you too. Don't you want to know?"

"Know what?" Sherlock asked to Jim but then he turned to John. "Know what?"

"Nothing!" John shouted, angrily. "He's a maniac!"

"I'm a maniac?" Jim shook his head. "I'm disappointed in you, Johnny boy."

Sherlock turned to Jim. "Let him go."

"Ah, isn't this sweet? Sherlock Holmes trying to save the man he doesn't know is his own bro-"

John threw his arms around Jim's neck, from behind, and pushed him off Sherlock.

"Sherlock, _run_!"

But Jim just laughed.

He laughed.

"Good!  _Very_  good!"

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up."

Jim's eyes were on Sherlock.

"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you  _like_  having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets," John's grip on Jim's neck tightened. "They're so touchingly loyal. But, Ops!" Jim turned just a bit to see John in the eye. _"_ You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson..."

There was a red dot on Sherlock's forehead.

No.

God, no.

Jim smiled darkly. "Gotcha!"

John released Jim and stepped back, his hands on the air.

Suddenly, there was no coming back.

"Westwood!" Jim said, straightening his suit.

John closed his blue eyes and gasped. " _Please._ "

"D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to  _you_?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh, let me guess - I get killed."

"Kill you?" Jim asked, sarcastically. "No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don't stop prying, I'll  _burn_  you..." Jim's dark eyes focused on Sherlock's. "I'll burn the  _heart_  out of you."

John looked into Sherlock's there was something that looked like tears.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite  _true_ ," Jim said, turning to John. "Isn't it, John?"

John said no word.

"Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat."

Sherlock bent his head. "What if I was to shoot you now, right now?"

"I'd be surprised, Sherlock. I really would," Jim rolled his eyes. "And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long... Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock followed Jim's form with the gun until he was out of sight. "Catch... you... later."

"No you won't!"

He dropped the gun and fell on his knees to the floor. He was in front of John and his long, cold fingers were making their own way to John's chest, trying to take that coat and the bomb off him before it could be too late. "All right?"

John said nothing, just gasped for air and took deep breaths.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah... yeah... I'm fine..." John felt Sherlock's hands slipping under the coat and caressing his chest more than necessary. "Sherlock? Sherlock! Are you okay?" John asked once Sherlock had taken the coat and the bomb off him.

"Me?" Sherlock asked, pacing around with the gun still on his hand and scratching his head with it. "Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Fine," the detective turned to John and lowered his eyes. "That, er, thing that you, er, that you did... that, um... you offered to do. That was, um...  _good_."

John fell to the floor and breathed dramatically. "I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hmm?"

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

Sherlock smiled. "People do little else."

The detective offered his hand and John took it.

"John."

"Yeah?"

With a quick movement, Sherlock grabbed John by the collar of his shirt and pulled him close for a kiss. The detective allowed himself to close his eyes and just feel John's thin, pink, soft lips against his. The detective cupped the doctor's face and deepened the kiss. Soon one hand migrated to the back of John's neck and he moaned into the kiss.

And soon their tongues were dancing together.

* * *

"John."

The doctor opened his eyes and met his brother's.

"Yeah?"

John couldn't remember how it happened, but in mere seconds and with a quick movement, Sherlock had pushed him until he was leaning against a wall and he was kissing him.

Sherlock, his brother, the man he had grown up with, the man he used to play with as kids, the man he used to call 'brother' as kids was now kissing him.

_Sherlock was kissing him._

The doctor saw Sherlock's eyes closed, felt his hands cupping his face and then one on the back of his neck, deepening the kiss. And soon John found himself closing his eyes, opening his mouth and their tongues were dancing together.

It felt different.

It felt nice, soft, warm.

The kiss was doing things to him.

And soon John felt something being pressed against his thigh.

And John remembered Mycroft's words.

_"Sherlock bringing his sex toy to Baker Street and having loud sex wasn't casual. He's trying to get you into his bed. And he will do it."_

_"We're brothers!"_

_"Technically speaking, it wouldn't be incest."_

_"Mycroft, please! I can't -"_

_"I'm not asking you to get into our brother's bed and satisfy him. I'm merely warning you. Because Sherlock does not stop until he gets what he wants. You know that. He insisted for more than five years until Mummy got him that skull."_

John opened his eyes and as soon as he felt Sherlock's hand touching him there, in his private places, he pushed him off him with more force than necessary.

"Don't touch me!"

* * *

This was what he had wanted to do since he had met him. Sherlock felt like Heaven, as if he had injected himself enough cocaine to make things feel better and to forget everything. John's mouth was warm, he tasted like tea and strawberry jam. His lips were so thin, but yet so soft. The skin of his neck felt soft, almost like silk.

And Sherlock couldn't help but moan into the kiss, into John's lip and press himself against John, only to make him feel his hardness, to make John feel how hard John made him. Sherlock couldn't help but move a hand down to reach John's member, that part of him Sherlock knew was as hard as his was. Because Sherlock knew it: John was bi. John liked women, breasts and wide hips. And John also liked flat chests, narrow hips and cocks.

The detective felt John's hands on his chest, but not caressing him but shoving him off - away from him.

Almost violently.

"Don't touch me!"

Sherlock blinked once, twice.

"John, I thought -"

"Don't ever touch me again!"

It hurt.

Sherlock looked at John's blushed face.

John looked sick.

_Sick._

"I'm -"

"Don't you dare to  _touch_  me again!" John shouted angrily.

It hurt.

And then everything fell into its place and Sherlock understood what Jim tried to say.

"You?" Sherlock said, hurt.

And then memories he thought he had deleted were back.

It was a Christmas - a fantastic Christmas because Mummy finally got him a skull. Sherlock remembered Mycroft's face when he deduced the night before Christmas day that he was getting new clothes because he was fat.

_"And Mycroft is getting new clothes because he put on weight again, five to seven pounds, and a new and classy bag for university."_

_"That's fantastic, Sherlock!"_

_"You know you do that aloud?"_

_'That's fantastic!'_ Who said that?

John.

Sherlock remembered that summer night - that hot night in which he ruined the jumper his Mummy had knitted for him. Sherlock remembered having dinner altogether and something happened - something happened because he remembered Mummy crying.

But what had happened?

_"Am I your brother, Sherlock?"_

Who said that?

John.

John said something to his parents... Mummy cried -

_"I know it was a mistake to say that, but it's the truth and -"_

_"Don't be so stupid, John. You're my brother."_

That shadow always present in those vague, almost deleted memories of his childhood was John.

The man he had just kissed was his brother - that boy his parents adopted.

That boy who when grew up became and doctor and joined the army and left him.

John Watson was his brother John -  _John Hamish Holmes._

"Sherlock, listen -"

"Sorry, boys! I'm soooooo changeable!" Jim said, stepping into the pool again. "It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my  _only_  weakness."

Sherlock's eyes fell on John's.

_This was the end._

"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but," Jim laughed sarcastically. "everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

There was a red dot on Sherlock's chest. "Probably my answer has crossed yours."

John turned to Jim and watched him nodding - giving the sniper the signal.

"Sherlock!"

There was a shot.

And someone fell to the floor.


	23. Forget Me Again

John couldn't remember how it happened, but in mere seconds and with a quick movement, Sherlock had pushed him until he was leaning against a wall and he was kissing him.

Sherlock, his brother, the man he had grown up with, the man he used to play with as kids, the man he used to call 'brother' as kids was now kissing him.

_Sherlock was kissing him._

The doctor saw Sherlock's eyes closed, felt his hands cupping his face and then one on the back of his neck, deepening the kiss. And soon John found himself closing his eyes, opening his mouth and their tongues were dancing together.

It felt different.

It felt nice, soft, warm.

The kiss was doing things to him.

And soon John felt something being pressed against his thigh.

And John remembered Mycroft's words.

_"Sherlock bringing his sex toy to Baker Street and having loud sex wasn't casual. He's trying to get you into his bed. And he will do it."_

_"We're brothers!"_

_"Technically speaking, it wouldn't be incest."_

_"Mycroft, please! I can't -"_

_"I'm not asking you to get into our brother's bed and satisfy him. I'm merely warning you. Because Sherlock does not stop until he gets what he wants. You know that. He insisted for more than five years until Mummy got him that skull."_

John opened his eyes and as soon as he felt the detective's hand touching him there, in his private places, John pushed Sherlock off him with more force than necessary.

"Don't touch me!"

Sherlock blinked once, twice.

"John, I thought -"

"Don't ever touch me again!"

It hurt.

Sherlock looked at John's blushed face.

John looked sick.

_Sick._

"I'm -"

"Don't you dare to  _touch_  me again!" John shouted angrily.

It hurt.

And then everything fell into its place and Sherlock understood what Jim tried to say.

"You?" Sherlock said, hurt.

And then memories he thought he had deleted were back.

It was a Christmas - a fantastic Christmas because Mummy finally got him a skull. Sherlock remembered Mycroft's face when he deduced the night before Christmas day that he was getting new clothes because he was fat.

_"And Mycroft is getting new clothes because he put on weight again, five to seven pounds, and a new classy bag for university."_

_"That's fantastic, Sherlock!"_

_"You know you do that aloud?"_

_'That's fantastic!'_ Who said that?

John.

Sherlock remembered that summer night - that hot night in which he ruined the jumper his Mummy had knitted for him. Sherlock remembered having dinner altogether and something happened - something happened because he remembered Mummy crying.

But what had happened?

_"Am I your brother, Sherlock?"_

Who said that?

John.

John said something to his parents... Mummy cried -

_"I know it was a mistake to say that, but it's the truth and -"_

_"Don't be so stupid, John. You're my brother."_

That shadow always present in those vague, almost deleted memories of his childhood was John.

The man he had just kissed was his brother - that boy his parents adopted. That boy who when grew up became and doctor and joined the army and left him.

John Watson was his brother John -  _John Hamish Holmes._

"Sherlock, listen -"

"Sorry, boys! I'm soooooo changeable!" Jim said, stepping into the pool again. "It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my  _only_  weakness."

Sherlock's eyes fell on John's.

_This was the end._

"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but," Jim laughed sarcastically. "everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

There was a red dot on Sherlock's chest. "Probably my answer has crossed yours."

John turned to Jim and watched him nodding - giving the sniper the signal.

"Sherlock!"

* * *

"He's fine," Mycroft said calmly, a cup of coffee in his hands. "The bullet barely hurt him."

John turned to him. " _Barely_? I'm a fucking doctor, Mycroft!" the doctor burst angrily. "He lost blood -"

Mycroft assented. "He's awake and he said he wants to see you."

John buried his head on his hands. "He kissed me."

"Naturally."

"Damn you, Myc."

"What else do you expect me to say?" Mycroft said, strangely enough, calmly. "He's in  _love_  with you."

"Don't," John said, pointing at his old brother with his finger. "Sherlock's  _not_  in love with me."

Mycroft looked at him. "He gave Moriarty a memory stick with enough information to destroy this government. He knew my superiors would probably hang me for treason but he chose to keep you safe." The politician tilted his head. "He chose  _you_. He doesn't want you to be his sex toy - he  _loves_  you."

John considered this for a moment.

Mycroft was... right. That memory stick Sherlock gave Moriarty with the condition to let him go had enough information not only to destroy the government but also to destroy Mycroft - Mycroft could have been killed for treason... well, that's what the politician said and that's what happened between politicians like Mycroft, right?

But it was a forbidden love. John would never feel for Sherlock _that_  love. John couldn't imagine himself kissing Sherlock, whom he considered was his brother. The doctor couldn't even imagine having sex with Sherlock. For God's sake, they were brothers! Not biological brothers, it wouldn't be incest, technically speaking, but no! John might like and fancy both genders, but no.

"He knows," John whispered. "Moriarty told him. You should have seen him, Myc... you should have seen his face when he looked at me and remembered." the doctor licked his lips. "He knows we're brothers. He knows who I am."

Mycroft sighed.

This was probably, surely, going to hurt.

_Again._

"Not any more."

"What?"

"Sherlock doesn't remember you, John," the politician said softly. "The shock of being shot, the emotions of that moment... everything worked perfectly and he doesn't remember you any more."

John frowned. "Perfectly?" he was angry. "How could you?"

"John, I wish your happiness and Sherlock's more than anything in this world," Mycroft confessed. "But I believe this is for the best."

"How can this be for the best? He's my brother!"

"Tell me what you would say."

The doctor was confused. "What?"

"If you told Sherlock the truth. What would you tell him?"

John remained silent for a moment.

He was speechless, because clearly, he would never know how to start. 'Hey Sherlock, I just got back from Afghanistan, I needed a place to live and found you just by chance'? 'Sherlock, listen, I know I was a prick when I left but forgive me?' What would he possibly say? How could he explain everything that had happened between them?

And let's add the fact that Sherlock  _seemed to like_  John.

"I shall take your silence as an answer to my question."

"It's not fucking easy, Mycroft!" John burst.

The politician took his umbrella and walked to the door. "He wants to see you."

Damn.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes -"

John opened the door and had to try, very hard, not to laugh at the sight. Sherlock was sitting on a bed, his back resting on what looked like soft and comfy pillows. His upper body bare, an important bandage across his left shoulder and arm and a nurse trying to change the bandage and clean the wound.

"You're not doing it properly!" The detective looked up and met his eyes. "Ah, John, he will do it."

The nurser turned to him. "Mr. Holmes -"

"He's a doctor!"

John nodded. "It's OK, I can do it."

Once the nurse left John sat next to Sherlock's bed and examined the wound.

"Does it hurt?" John asked while he let his fingertips touch the small wound left.

Sherlock's eyes were on his. "No."

"I'm afraid you'll have to wear a bandage for long days," John said causally. "It'll itch a bit."

"The doctor said so, yes."

There was a long silence until John finished cleaning the wound. Sherlock's left shoulder had five to ten stitches and there were some purple bruises around the wound. Moriarty's men were clever: they only shot him on the shoulder, on a safe place where no harm could be done. Mycroft was right, the bullet barely hurt Sherlock but yet he had lost lots of blood for sure.

The detective looked pale, defenceless.

"He made a different call."

John frowned. "What?"

"Moriarty. He could have killed me," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "But he didn't. Why?"

"You should be happy."

"Why?"

"For being alive," John replied. "Safe and sound."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Someone kept him from killing me."

"Why?"

"No," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "The question is: who?"

John sighed. "The doctor say you can leave tomorrow."

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, as if hurt.

"Home. Your brother said he will discharge you tomorrow."

"I don't want Mycroft."

Sherlock looked at John.

"You know I can't do it," John said, and faked a smile. "Only relatives."

The detective rolled his eyes.

"I can come and visit tomorrow. I'm sure Mrs Hudson will want to come too."

"Hmm."

John stopped at the door. "You OK?"

"Me? Yes."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"Good," John said and licked his lips. "Will see you tomorrow."


	24. The Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be covering all the episodes from the show but I won't go into many details about them otherwise this fic will be insanely long.
> 
> Apologies in advance for my mistakes. Thanks for reading!

"Look at them," Their eyes fell on the family waiting outside. They were crying and it was obvious they had just been told a close relative had died. "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

"All lives end. All hearts are broken," Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Sherlock remember one particular Christmas day. Actually, he only remembered that Christmas when mummy finally got him that human skull he had always been asking for. He got that plus interesting books, a new microscope and something that looked like a silly green jumper.

He really missed mummy but he was not saying it. Mummy had been the only person who understood him just like he was. Father was always busy either on his office or cheating on mummy with his secretary.

Mummy was soft, warm and she was always there to caress his dark curls, the same ones he had inherited from her.

"This is low tar."

"Well, you barely knew her."

Sherlock started to walk away, not really caring it was past midnight, already Christmas.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

"And a happy New Year."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was a very difficult man to live with. John had already quite an experience, he had lived with Sherlock since he was eight and he hadn't changed a bit. Sherlock was still that child who would sulk if he was bored, if there wasn't enough frogs in the garden to experiment with, if mummy was busy throwing tea parties with her noisy friends or if Mycroft was home and was an insufferable teenager.

Often John found himself living the exact situations all over again. It was funny, certainly funny to see Sherlock Holmes, a thirty something year old man curled into a ball on a sofa, pouting, staring at the ceiling and wishing the boringness would go away.

Sherlock was still composing sad songs about that woman and staring at his blog for long days. John really wished he could made that woman disappear. Ever since Irene Adler had appeared in their lives Sherlock had become more and more quiet, distant with him and everyone.

But sometimes it wasn't enough to deal with Sherlock because now he had to deal with Mycroft. And John couldn't remember when was it that Mycroft started acting like a drama queen.

Now he was in a desert factory and waiting for his big brother to have the decency to show up.

"He's writing sad music. Doesn't eat. Barely talks – only to correct the television," John said pacing around the place, his eyes looking for Mycroft to appear. "I'd say he was heartbroken but, er, well, he's Sherlock. He does all that any- "

"Hello, Doctor Watson."

It was The Woman.

Irene Adler.

"Tell him you're alive."

"He'd come after me."

John snorted. " _I_ 'll come after you if you don't."

"Mmm, I believe you."

"You were dead on a slab," the doctor bellowed. "It was definitely you."

Irene smiled at him. "DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep."

"And I bet you know the record-keeper."

"I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear."

"Then how come  _I_  can see you, and I don't even want to?"

Irene shrugged just slightly. "Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back, so I need your help."

What? "No."

"It's for his own safety."

"So's this. You have to tell him you're alive."

"I can't."

"Fine," John started walking to the place where he came. "I'll tell him, and I still won't help you."

"And what do I say?"

"What do you normally say? You've texted him a  _lot_."

At this point Irene took her phone out and started typing. "Just the usual stuff."

"There is no 'usual' in this case."

" _Good morning_ ," Irene started reading. " _I like your funny hat. I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner._ " She looked up at John before continuing. " _You looked sexy on 'Crimewatch'. Let's have dinner. I'm not hungry, let's have dinner_."

John couldn't believe this. "You  _flirted_  with Sherlock Holmes?"

"At him. He never replies."

"No, Sherlock  _always_  replies – to  _everything_. He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word."

Irene paused for a moment and smiled, curling her thin yet perfectly red lips. "Does that make me special?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Are you jealous?"

"We're not a couple."

"Yes you are," Irene took two steps forward and smiled at John.

John clenched his teeth but remained silent.

"There," Irene pressed sent. " _I'm not dead. Let's have dinner._ "

"Who... who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but – for the record – if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."

"You're lying Doctor Watson. There's something you're not telling him."

John was about to say something when he laughed, sarcastically. Who the hell was this woman and how come she knew about him and Sherlock?

Before he could say something, they heard it.

The ringtone. The orgasmic female moan on Sherlock's phone.

He was there.

Sherlock was there and he listened to everything.

John walked and only saw Sherlock's coat disappearing.

* * *

"My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?"

John shrugged. "I don't know."

"Neither do I... but initially he wanted to be a pirate."

John couldn't help but smile at the memory of a little Sherlock close to his teenage years wearing a pirate hat and calling their dog Redbeard all across the garden.

_"I'll be the brave corsair and you John will be my buccaneer."_

_John smiled and put on his pirate hat and called their dog Redbeard so he could play with them. "And Mycroft gets to play too?"_

_"Yes," little Sherlock smiled mischievously. "Mycroft will be the annoying fat pirate who wants to steal our gold."_

* * *

"She's in America," John lied. "Yes, America."

"America?"

John nodded. "Got herself on a witness protection scheme, apparently. Dunno how she swung it, but, er, well, you know."

"I know what?"

"Well, you won't be able to see her again."

"Why would I want to see her again?"

Because you might like her? Because for the last months she played with your mind and made you into a complete dick? John faked a smile. "Didn't say you did."

"Is that her file?"

"Yes," John looked down at the file in his hands and wished he hadn't taken it. "I was just gonna take it back to Mycroft."

"I will have the camera phone, though." Sherlock said, holding his hand out.

John frowned. "There's nothing on it any more. It's been stripped."

"I know but -" The detective shrugged. "I'll still have it."

"I've gotta give this back to Mycroft. You can't keep it." John lied, but Sherlock held his hand out,s till waiting for it. "Sherlock, I have to give this to Mycroft. It's the government's now. I couldn't even give -"

" _Please_."

John closed his eyes and for one second he remembered the day they had to put their dog Redbeard down.

_"But it's not ill, John! Redbeard can't die!"_

_"I know, Sher," John said, taking his brother's hand and both looking at their dog sleeping on the floor of Sherlock's room. "But Redbeard is very old and tired."_

_"It's not fair!" Sherlock cried._

_Mummy cried too and knelt between her children. "Sher, John, I know it's hard, but Redbeard needs to rest."_

_"Please, mummy," Sherlock begged. "I'll behave, I promise! Please don't kill Redbeard!"_

John had no other choice but give Sherlock Irene Adler's old phone.

"Thank you."

"Well, I'd better take this back."

"Yes."

"Did she ever text you again, after... all that?"

Sherlock looked at John, leaving his experiments aside. "Once, a few months ago."

"What did she say?" John asked, trying not to sound too curious.

" _Goodbye, Mr. Holmes_."

John smiled and left.

Sherlock went through the old messages Irene had sent him months ago and smiled.

But soon that smile disappeared from his face when, from the windows of his flat, he spotted John and Mycroft talking.


	25. Time to face the fear

John woke up with a strange, crawling feeling in his chest. He had a nightmare again. That nightmare which reminded him of that night at the inn, when Sherlock was clearly upset and the only thing John wanted to do was to let him know everything was all right, that being scared was nothing to be ashamed of and mostly important, that he was always going to be with him.

_"OK, Sherlock," John whispered soothingly. "It's OK. Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend -"_

_"I don't have friends." Sherlock said, spatting the last word._

_John felt the tears already threatening to go out in plain sight. "Wonder why."_

The last thing John remembered he did was getting up and leaving.

Sherlock never called him back, nor ran after him. Why would he? John knew he wasn't Sherlock's friend. John was Sherlock's flatmate, his assistant, nothing else. The only three people who knew who they really were were himself, Sherlock and Mycroft.

John wished he could tell Sherlock the truth. He wished he could also tell Sherlock he still remembered their afternoons in the greenhouse which Sherlock had turned into a mini lab for himself before he joined the family. John also remembered their birthday parties, their games, the time they used to kick Mycroft's leg under the table at dinner.

And when they moved together to London. John loved those days and longed for them. He loved taking Sherlock to a pub, share drinks with him and his mates. Sometimes it was funny to see Sherlock doing his deduction thing. Sometimes it wasn't when three to five men wanted to kick his brother's arse.

Mycroft said it was for the best. He said Sherlock could not be told about their true relationship because it would only break his heart.

And Sherlock? John and Mycroft were convinced he had deleted John again. But had he?

Had he?

John got up, took his towel and headed to the kitchen, where he found Sherlock completing an experiment for a case. They had returned for Baskerville some time ago and things since then had changed between the two of them. The morning after the incident at the inn Sherlock apologised and told him he was his only friend.

His only friend.

"Working on the case?"

"Hmm."

Sherlock's phone chimed but the detective didn't move from his seat. John drank the last of his tea and headed to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later he was sitting on his chair and reading the papers when Sherlock's phone chimed again. "Your phone."

Nothing.

Another text.

John sighed. "I'll get it, shall I?"

He read the text and went pale. John walked to the kitchen and tried to give it to Sherlock but the detective refused, still quite focused on his experiment. "Here."

"Not now, I'm busy."

"Sherlock -"

"Not _now_."

" _He_ 's back."

Sherlock looked up and took the phone into his hands.

 _Come and play._  
Tower Hill.  
Jim Moriarty x.  


* * *

**GET SHERLOCK**

John looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock curled his lips up into a tiny smile.

* * *

"Ready?"

"Yes."

The left Baker Street in the middle of journalists and paparazzis crowd waiting for them outside. They got into a police car and were drove to where Sherlock was to face James Moriarty again and testify against him.

"Remember -"

"Yes."

"Remember -"

"Yes," Sherlock cut John off again before he could even said another word.

"Remember what they told you: don't try to be clever -"

Sherlock kept looking away. "No."

"P _lease_ , just keep it simple and brief."

"God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent."

"'Intelligent', fine. Let's give 'smart-arse' a wide berth."

Neither said a word until Sherlock sighed heavily. "I'll just be myself."

"Are you even listening to me?"

At this Sherlock saw John for the first time since they got into the car. "Yes. Stop _mothering_ me."

"Would never dare to," John said sarcastically.

Sherlock snorted but remained silent for the rest of the ride.

* * *

After the questions and an apparent incident in the toilets with a woman, both were back at Baker Street. John threw himself onto his chair and sighed tiredly. It was late, he was tired and something was not quite all right.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"The look."

"Look?"

"You're doing the look again."

Sherlock frowned. "Well, I can't see it, can I?" he then turned and looked himself at his reflection. "It's my _face_."

"Yes, and it's doing a thing. You're doing a 'we both know what's really going on here' face."

"Well, we do." Sherlock said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the whole world.

"No, I don't," John snorted. "which is why I find The Face so annoying."

"If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in a prison cell right now is because he _chose_ to be there. Somehow this is part of his scheme."

A bloody Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

The bloody bastard was free to leave. James Moriarty had stolen the crown jewels, broke into the most safest places in Britain and he was walking free.

"Not Guilty. They found him Not Guilty. No defence, and Moriarty's walked free." John breathed but got no answer. "Sherlock. Are you listening? He's out. You know he'll be coming after you. Sher -"

Sherlock finished the call, got to his feet and made tea.

It was time for the battle.

It was time to face the fear.


	26. IOU

"May I?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth. "Please."

The detective had prepared tea and everything was ready. He was ready.

Ready to face the fear.

John called him warning him about Jim being free. John feared he would go and hurt Sherlock but the detective knew it was not going to happen, he knew James Moriarty _still_ needed him to be alive.

Moriarty needed Sherlock alive in order to complete his game.

The consulting criminal sat on his armchair and Sherlock poured tea in two cups and sat on John's chair. "You know when he was on his death bed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end -"

"And the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it." Sherlock finished Jim's sentence.

"Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody."

"Neither can you. That's why you've come."

"But be honest you're just a tiny bit _pleased._ "

"What, with the verdict?" Sherlock snorted.

"With _me,_ " Jim said, leaning forward. "back on the streets. Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain. You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I, except you're boring." Jim shook his head, eating more of the apple he had taken as soon as he got into the flat. "You're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock remained silent for a second or two until he sipped more of his tea. "Got to the jury, of course."

"I got into the Tower of London. You think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

"Cable network."

"Every hotel bedroom has a personalised TV screen and every person has their pressure point. Someone that they want to protect from harm," Jim smiled darkly. "Easy-peasy."

"So how're you going to do it... burn me?"

"Oh, that's the problem – the final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet?" Jim asked but Sherlock remained silent. "What's the final problem?" Moriarty smiled. "I did tell you... but did you listen?"

Sherlock remained silent. He knew he had to look. He had to observe. Moriarty was at his flat, at the place he and John lived together. He was there and Sherlock had to see because he knew Moriarty was leaving, practically giving him all the clues.

He had to be clever.

Jim snorted. "How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don't know'?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, that's clever. That's very clever _. Awfully_ clever," Jim smiled. "Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet? Have you told the _brothers_?"

"Told them what?" Sherlock asked, faking disinterest and completely ignoring Jim's words.

Or that's what Jim thought.

"Why I broke into all those places and never took anything."

"No."

"But _you_ understand."

"Obviously."

"Off you go, then."

"You want me to tell you what you already know?"

Jim shook his head. "No. I want you to _prove_ that you know it."

"You didn't take anything because you don't _need_ to."

"Good," Jim said.

"You'll never need to take anything ever again."

Jim nodded in agreement. "Very good. Because?"

"Because nothing _... nothing_ in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three."

"I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now – they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy – I _own_ secrecy. Nuclear codes – I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king and honey, you should _see_ me in a crown."

This was insane. "You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the world what you can do."

"And you were helping," Jim agreed. "Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities... terrorist cells. They all want me. Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex."

Sherlock frowned. "If you could break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?"

"I don't. I just like to watch them all competing. "Daddy loves _me_ the best!" Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know. You've got John. I should get myself a live-in one."

"Why _are_ you doing all of this?" Sherlock asked, getting furious at the mention of John's name.

"It'd be so funny, having a _brother_ around..."

Sherlock preferred to ignore that.

"You don't want money or power. What _is_ it all for?"

"I want to solve the problem – _our_ problem; the final problem." Jim said softly. "It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock... the fall. But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."

"Never liked riddles."

"Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I... owe... you."

* * *

As soon as Jim left Sherlock sunk in John's chair. He let his hands caress the soft material of the chair and thought of Moriarty's words.

_"Have you told the brothers?"_

The _brothers._

Sherlock remained silent until John arrived. He pretended he listened to him arguing about the traffic, asking him whether Jim had been there or not and if he was OK.

Now Sherlock understood everything.

"He was here, wasn't he? What did he say? Did he hurt you -"

"John," Sherlock said, standing up and looking straight into John's eyes. Into those eyes he remembered so much. "Leave. Me. _Alone._ "

Sherlock went to his room and slammed the door shut.


	27. Brothers

"You -"

"It was for your own good."

"Why?"

Mycroft sighed and looked at his brother. "I promised Father -"

"Why?" Sherlock slammed his hand against the table. "You promised Father you'd take care of us? You... you sent John to Afghanistan -"

"I was merely fulfilling his own wishes."

"And keeping my letters did any good to me?"

After Moriarty's visit to 221 B Baker Street Sherlock exploded. He didn't talk to John for weeks and refused to leave his own room. Nothing, not even a good case in the middle of this nightmare would cheer him up or made him forget the man living with him was that lost brother he had always had some vague memories about.

Why on Earth... why he had to fall in love with John Watson who was no one else but his own brother?

They kissed. Sherlock kissed him and John kissed him back.

And they were brothers.

 _Adoptive_  brothers.

"I did what I thought was the best for both of you," Mycroft spoke firmly, yet calmly. "I'm the big brother, as Mummy always said, and I ought to -"

"As soon as this finishes -" Sherlock looked away and then back to his brother. "We're  _adoptive_  brothers. John doesn't even has our name."

"You can't."

Sherlock glared at him with angry, furious eyes. "I'm not asking for your approval."

"Sherlock,  _nothing_  can happen between you and John. John is not... John is not just that boy our parents adopted."

The detective froze.

Maybe it was time to say the truth.

"No."

Sherlock looked at John's jumper left on the sofa. That jumper their mother knitted for him before dying. And Sherlock could still remember that day so well, the day their mother gave John that jumper and said it would always keep him warm.

Their mother knew.

Mycroft knew.

He himself knew but never said anything. Maybe he just refused to believe it.

John was not only the boy their parents adopted.

John was their Father's biological son.

"John is Father's bastard." Mycroft whispered, as if he were afraid John would hear even though he was not there. "He's the product of an affair he had. He didn't give John his name when he was born because that is the way John's mother wanted it to be. She made her then husband believe it was his. He..." the politician trailed off and his eyes met Sherlock's. "He didn't want to hurt Mummy. Years later he was eventually told about John's mother and her husband's deaths. As you know John lived with his sister Harriet but her drinking problems almost killed John in a car accident. That's when -"

"When Father told Mummy about John."

"Yes."

"So they adopted him."

"Father -"

"They lied when they said it was only for the sake of the political campaign," Sherlock cut Mycroft off. "It was Father's  _atonement_. And Mummy obliged."

Mycroft rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Mummy lost a baby -"

"I already know that story. What I want to know is why they never told us. Why they never told John."

"Do you really believe something would have changed if we had been told about John's origins from the beginning? You were a child, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood up and opened the door for Mycroft, a clue he indeed wanted to be left alone. "You're not telling John a word about this."

"He has rights."

"John will  _never_  know about this," Sherlock said darkly. "Or you'll regret it."

Mycroft, by just looking at his brother, knew how hurt he was. "Sherlock... I did my best to protect both of you. Forgive me if I failed and my protection wasn't enough."

"Leave."

* * *

"Tradition, John. Our traditions define us."

John smiled sarcastically. "So total silence is traditional, is it? You can't even say, 'Pass the sugar.'"

"Three-quarters of the diplomatic service and half the government front bench all sharing one tea trolley. It's for the best, believe me," the politician poured himself some whiskey and turned to face John. "They don't want a repeat of nineteen seventy-two. But we can talk in here."

The doctor glanced at a copy of The Sun and frowned. "You read this stuff?"

"Caught my eye." Mycroft tried to find any signs on John, signs which could reveal if anything happened since his visit to Sherlock. "Saturday: they're doing a big exposé."

"I'd love to know where she got her information."

"Someone called Brook. Recognise the name?"

John frowned. "School friend, maybe? Can't remember, really. Sherlock didn't have many friends."

"Of Sherlock's? But that's not why I asked you here."

"Who's that?" John asked once Mycroft had opened a file and showed him some papers.

"Don't know him?"

"No."

"Never seen his face before? He's taken a flat in Baker Street, two doors down from you."

"Hmm! I was  _thinking_  of doing a drinks thing for the neighbours."

"Not sure you'll want to," Mycroft handed him more folders. "Sulejmani. Albanian hit squad. Expertly-trained killer living less than twenty feet from your front door."

"It's a great location. Jubilee line's handy."

"John -"

"What's it got to do with me?"

Irritation.

John was showing signs of irritation, the politician deduced, something had indeed happened in Baker Street.

"Dyachenko, Ludmila."

"Um, actually, I think I  _have_  seen her."

"Russian killer. She's taken the flat opposite."

"Okay... " John raised both eyebrows. "I'm sensing a pattern here."

"In fact,  _four_  top international assassins relocate to within spitting distance of two hundred and twenty-one B. Anything you care to share with me?"

John said anything first. "I'm moving?"

"It's not hard to guess the common denominator, is it?"

"You think this is Moriarty?"

"He promised Sherlock he'd come back."

"If this was Moriarty, we'd be dead already."

Mycroft managed a tiny smile. "If not Moriarty, then who?"

"Why don't you talk to Sherlock if you're so concerned about him?"

Ah. There it was. Mycroft couldn't help but look away. Suddenly he realised, after meeting his brother and revealing the truth, that he had made a huge mistake. Because maybe, just maybe, John felt the same for Sherlock.

"Oh God, don't tell me."

"Too much history between us, John. Old scores; resentments."

"Nicked all his Smurfs? Broke his Action Man?" John smiled. "Remember he said he would never forgive you?"

The doctor placed the folders back to the table and turned to the door. "We both know what's coming, John." John turned to him. "Moriarty is obsessed. He's sworn to destroy his only rival."

"So you want me to watch out for your brother because he won't accept your help. Right."

"If it's not too much trouble."

As soon as John left and the door was closed Mycroft called Sherlock."Done." He only needed to hear the confirmation to finish the call and wait.


	28. Breadcrumbs

"Alkaline."

"Thank you, John."

"Molly."

"Yes."

This case was far too good to waste time and sources. Chalk, asphalt, brick dust and vegetation. That was all he had and yet he couldn't just get the last one. Glycerol molecules?

"I... owe...  _you_."

Molly turned to him confusedly. "What did you mean, 'I owe you'? You said, 'I owe you'. You were muttering it while you were working."

Sherlock noticed John was moving across the lab to get something from is jacket. "Nothing. Mental note."

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead - No, sorry -"

"Molly,  _please_  don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area."

Molly continued even though she wished she hadn't said a word. "When he was... dying, he was always cheerful. He was lovely, except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

"Molly -"

"You look sad when you think  _he_  can't see you." She said, her eyes on John. She suddenly noticed Sherlock was no longer focused on the microscope but his eyes were on John, on the man Molly considered was Sherlock's friend, flatmate, maybe something more. "Are you okay?"

But Sherlock had nothing to say. Maybe he had but he chose not to say it. No one, no one in this world could possibly understand what was happening inside him, around them. Mycroft didn't get it. John, the centre of all of this would never understand. John, who was that someone Sherlock had never been looking for but suddenly appeared, was the reason why Sherlock was doing all of this.

_John._

John, who was the man Sherlock loved was also his adoptive brother. But there was more than that. John was his brother too. Biologically speaking, John and he shared the same blood.

What Sherlock wanted to have with all his heart, with all his being could never be his. Because what Sherlock wanted was John's heart, soul, love, body, mind. Sherlock wanted to possess everything that made John Watson but he couldn't. Those lips he had kissed long time ago would never be his again because those lips belonged to a man who was his brother.

And it hurt.

The only thing that comforted Sherlock in his moments of solitude, when the lights at 221 B were off, when there was no one else but himself inside his room was the thought that soon everything was going to come to an end and everyone soon would be safe.

That's the way his parents wanted it. Sherlock remembered the moment his Mummy died. She made their father promise he would look after them. Nothing could Father do because John left to Afghanistan and the drugs destroyed the young man whose wish was to become a detective. However, now Sherlock realised after so long that his Father wanted to tell them the truth but never got the chance. Or maybe he never wanted to admit to his sons, Mycroft and Sherlock, that he betrayed their mother and the child he brought one day 'just because' was no one else but his own biological son, his bastard, the child he thought he would never meet, raise, love.

Before Sherlock could say anything, Molly cut him off. "And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

"You can see me."

"I don't count."

There was a silence in which the only thing both could hear was John going through some papers.

"What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me - No, I just mean... I mean if there's anything you need - It's fine." _  
_

"What could I need from you?"

Molly looked at him. "Nothing. dunno. You could probably say thank you, actually."

"Thank you." He said, hesitantly.

"I'm just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?" She waited for an answer, but she quickly turned back to the door. "It's okay, I know you don't."

"Well, actually, maybe I'll -"

"I know you don't."

She left.

This reminded him of those maids he never liked. There was one who Sherlock had long time ago erased, deleted from his brain. Still, even when that maid had no name for him, Sherlock could remember her tender face, her sweet voice when she asked whether he or John or both wanted or needed anything. John liked her, that he could remember.

Mummy had strictly instructed every person working at the house not to talk to the children unless necessary. To them the personnel were outsiders, even though they lived in the house. He could walk all around the house while the maids cleaned and they would never glance at him, nor dare to look at him. Strict orders, that's the way Mummy put it once. She said you ought to be strict with those people, but also nice and polite because after all they were cleaning the house, keeping the grass short, driving them to the city and cooking for them.

That maid John was so fond of played with them when there was no one else to play with them. Sherlock remembered once being called a 'nice little boy' by her, after he helped her to set the table for tea. He would have never done such thing, having been born in a wealthy family with enough money to hire the large personnel working for them. But John once said, and this Sherlock could remember, that that girl, that young girl Sherlock was sure was no less than eighteen, reminded him his own sister Harriet.

Harriet. Sherlock often wondered if John visited her now, as he used to do when both were in university. The detective wondered if John had already told her about him, that they were living together and that he 'didn't know' they were brothers. Adoptive brothers. John still didn't know and Sherlock knew he would never know the truth. John would never know he's Father's bastard, that he's indeed a Holmes.

That they are brothers.

"Sherlock."

John's voice brought him back to reality. "Hmm?"

John presented him an envelope found at the missing boy's trunk and another one he had found early at their doorstep. Both had the same seal and inside the one John found at their doorstep, breadcrumbs.

"A little trace of breadcrumbs... hardback copy of fairy tales. Two children led into the forest by a wicked father follow a little trail of breadcrumbs."

"That's 'Hansel and Gretel'. What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?"

"The sort that likes to boast. The sort that thinks it's all a game. He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me."

It wasn't difficult to find the exact location of the factory where Sherlock knew the kidnapper had the missing children. What was really difficult was to avoid everyone's faces once the children were safe at the Scotland Yard and the little girl cried when she saw him.

Everything was going according to the plan.

Sherlock knew the end was so close that he could already feel it, sense it, taste it.

Bitter-sweet.

Jim was getting into everyone. John was telling Lestrade about how children deal with the stress after such situations like this one. All Sherlock could hear was nothing, utterances which had no sense to him until Sally approached him.

Sally's mind was already contaminated with Moriarty's idea.

And Sherlock wondered if John would fall for that lie too.

"You okay?"

"John..."

John looked at him expectantly.

Something inside Sherlock made him hesitate.

And he was to regret this moment for the rest of his life.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John repeated the question.

There was something wrong in the way John pronounced his name. It sounded so -  _unfamiliar._

"Thinking." As soon as the cab pulled up, Sherlock opened the door and got in. "This is my cab. You get the next one."

"Why?"

"You might talk."

 


	29. A fraud

_"This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot. Sir Boast-a-lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the Round Table, but soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories about how brave he was and how many dragons he'd slain, and soon they began to wonder... 'Are Sir Boast-a-lot's stories even true?' Oh, no. So one of the knights went to King Arthur and said: 'I don't believe Sir Boast-a-lot's stories. He's just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good.' And then even the King began to wonder... But that wasn't the end of Sir Boast-a-lot's problem. wasn't the final problem..."_

Sherlock knew that story. He had first been told about it when he was a mere five year old child and Mycroft said he had to stop showing off in front of their parents because he was the cleverest one.

"I'm older, therefore, I'm cleverer."

Sherlock pouted. "But age doesn't mean anything."

"Yes it does," said a twelve year old Mycroft. "The more older you are, the wiser you become."

"That's not fair!"

The second time Sherlock was told this story, the story of Sir-Boast-a-lot, he was fifteen and John was reading it to him. They were going through old books when John found it. He said he liked that story because it teaches you not to be a show off, boast about things and so on. They even made jokes and said Mycroft was a Sir-Boast-a-lot since every time he came home after university he would talk about his grades and his good and important acquaintances.

Someone had told Moriarty about that story and how much it meant to Sherlock.

And Sherlock knew it.

"No, Inspector."

Lestrade looked at him in wonder. "What?"

"The answer's no."

"But you haven't heard the question!"

"You want to take me to the station. Just saving you the trouble of asking."

At this point John started to feel something was going terribly wrong. If he understood well, Greg wanted to take Sherlock down to the station - Greg suspected Sherlock was the criminal here.

"Sherlock -"

"The scream?"

"Yeah."

"Who was it? Donovan?" Sherlock stood up from his chair and crossed the living room until he was just across Lestrade. "I bet it was Donovan. Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping? Ah, Moriarty is smart. He planted that doubt in her head. That little nagging sensation. You're gonna have to be strong to resist. You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home there." Sherlock said placing both of his fingers on Greg's forehead, meaning his brain.

"Will you come?" Lestrade asked.

"One photograph, that's his next move. Moriarty's game, first the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch." Sherlock sat again and focused on the camera he had found in between his books. "It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play. Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan."

Long minutes passed. John watched Greg leaving, making himself out, then joining Sally Donovan and both getting into his car. John had always been aware no one at the Yard really liked Sherlock. Greg was the exception because well, John didn't know him much but he could feel Greg was fond of Sherlock. But Donovan... it was clear that Donovan didn't, maybe hadn't and probably will never like Sherlock.

John remembered the first days, when a new year at school started and soon people started making friends. John was friends with the boys whom he played rugby with, some group of girls he fancied. But Sherlock never got along with people. There were a few girls who liked him, a boy or two who liked his deductive skills and were relatively clever, people Sherlock could put up with without scaring them off.

Sometimes John wondered how Sherlock's life had been when he left to Afghanistan. He knew about the drugs and well, the lovers Mycroft once told him about, but what John didn't know was if Sherlock had someone close. Not lover. A friend.

Sherlock's eyes were on John for a moment. They just had a few hours and Sherlock wanted to make the most of it but there was no possible way to talk about all the things Sherlock wished they could talk about together. Sherlock wanted to know how had been John's life when he was in Afghanistan, if he made good friends, how those wounds he knew he had marked him. Sherlock wanted to know so many things.

And Sherlock still wanted to ask for forgiveness.

Because Sherlock knew John left to Afghanistan because of his words.

_"...we are different! You were just a replacement. You're not John Holmes. You're not my brother!"_

_John blinke donce, twice, not fully getting what Sherlock was saying to him. Shouting at him. "What?"_

_"You're no one here. You're nothing to me! You're nothing more than a replacement."_

_When John blinked and tears rolled down his face, Sherlock understood the damage he had caused. Because he didn't mean it. Sherlock never meant those words. Sherlock loved John because no matter where John had come from, John was his brother. At that time he didn't know it, but they were real brothers. And John meant a whole life to him._

_"I'm sorry John," Sherlock whispered as soon as he saw John packing a very few items into a small suitcase and leaving their home._

_Silence fell over them. The other man couldn't help but try to get close to him. But the recent graduate Doctor stepped back.  
_

_"You said it. Don't you remember, Sherlock? You said the truth. We are not brothers"_

_"John, I didn't mean it-"_

_"You said it Sherlock. We are different."_

Sherlock wondered if John ever forgave him.

"They'll be deciding."

"Deciding?" Asked John, still looking outside their window.

"Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me."

"You think?"

"Standard procedure."

"Should have gone with him. People'll think -"

"I don't care what people think."

"You'd care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong."

"No," Sherlock shook his head. His eyes were on his laptop but his full attention was on John. "that would just make  _them_  stupid or wrong."

John tuned to Sherlock angrily. "Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're -"

As soon as Sherlock's eyes were on him, John just couldn't go on with the sentence, with the statement. It was a statement. He didn't want the world to believe his clever brother was a fraud because he wasn't. Sherlock wasn't a fraud. Sherlock was clever. John knew Sherlock was cleverer than him, than Mrs Hudson, than Mycroft even.

"That I am what?"

"A fraud."

Sherlock leaned back on his chair and now focused fully on John. His eyes were on John's. On those eyes he had seen into so many times. "You're worried they're right."

"What?"

"You're worried they're right about me."

"No."

"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."

John faced away again, not being able to face Sherlock again. Not now. "No. I'm not."

"Moriarty is playing with your mind too. Can't you  _see_  what's going on?" Sherlock asked angrily, slamming a hand onto the table. This eventually got John's attention because now his blue orbs were back to Sherlock's.

"No," John breathed. "I know you're for real."

"A hundred percent?"

John smiled a very little bit. "Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time."

And Sherlock couldn't help but smile a bit too.

But both wanted to say something different. Sherlock didn't want to say this was a game only planned by Moriarty and John didn't want to say he knew Sherlock was an annoying dick all the time. Both things were partially true.

But both were also lies.

This wasn't only a game planned by Moriarty.

And Sherlock wasn't only an annoying dick all the time.

Sherlock had planned and now was playing this game. And he and Jim knew how everything was going to end. Everyone involved knew. Everyone but John.

Sherlock was his dear brother John loved with all his heart. Because both had been raised together. John still didn't know they were half brothers. John didn't know his adoptive father was actually his real father. John knew nothing about it and John knew nothing about this game. Nor how this was going to end.

John's phone went off. "What?... OK. I'll tell him. Ta." The doctor turned to Sherlock. "So, still got some friends on the Force. It's Lestrade. Says they're all coming over here right now, queuing up to slap on the handcuffs: every single officer you ever made feel like a tit, which is a lot of people."

Sherlock ignored this, already knowing what was going to happen when Mrs Hudson got in and handed them a parcel containing a gingerbread man, burned. "Burn to a crisp."

"What does it mean?" John asked.

The doorbell rang, Mrs Hudson ran to open the door but soon the police was on the stairs, Greg, Donovan, several policemen, all ready to arrest Sherlock Holmes, the man who, as John said, made everyone feel like a tit all the time.

The look in the policemen and in Donovan's eyes were full of hatred. Resentment. Greg looked somehow hurt, almost deceived but not fully convinced Sherlock was a criminal. It was clear he was following orders from above.

"Have you got a warrant? Have you?"

"Leave it, John."

Sherlock heard everything from the living room. Standard procedure exaggerated by the ridiculous amount of police cars parked outside Baker Street and the number of policemen all running up the stairs to fetch him. He put on his coat, his scarf and waited.

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."

"He's not resisting!"

"It's all right, John."

"He's not resisting. No, it's  _not_  all right. This is ridiculous."

Of course it wasn't right. He wasn't the one to blame. He wasn't the guilty one here. Sherlock felt ashamed, embarrassed to be arrested in front of John. He had been arrested before and several times had been in front of Mycroft, but he didn't care. He was far too high to care.

But now Sherlock wasn't high. Sherlock was merely following the plan.

He had to keep John safe.

"Get him downstairs now."

John looked at Greg indignantly. "You know you don't have to do -"

"Don't try to interfere, or I shall arrest you too." Greg said, following procedure too.

John left it there because he knew there was not point trying to stop this injustice. Greg left after Sherlock, all the police officers were down on the streets, getting into their cars when the only person from the Force remaining on the flat was Sally.

"You done?"

"Oh, I said it."

"What?"

"First time we met," Sally reminded John. "Solving crimes won't be enough. One day he'll cross the line. Now, ask yourself: what sort of man would kidnap those kids just so he can impress us all by finding them?"

Mrs Hudson was about to reply when John shook his head angrily and looked at the round man on his flat. "Donovan."

"Sir."

"Got our man?"

"Yes, sir."

"Looked a bit of a weirdo, if you ask me. Often are, these vigilante types," The round man, who was Donovan and Lestrade's superior looked at John's angry eyes on him. "What are you looking at?"

* * *

"Joining me?"

"Yeah. Apparently it's against the law to chin the Chief Superintendant."

Both John and Sherlock were being held against a police car. Several of their neighbours were on their doors, watching. Sherlock couldn't help but smile a bit, at John joining him, somehow defending him.

It wasn't enough to stop this.

"Bit awkward, this."

"No one to bail us."

"I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape."

"What?"

Sherlock managed to reach some buttons inside the police car, making all the police officers take their earpieces off, crying in pain after the high-pitched sounds. This made the police man behind them step back, so Sherlock took his gun and aimed at the police officers close to him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees? Now would be good!"

Lestrade sighed tiredly. "Do as he says!"

All the police officers were on their knees when John understood what was going on. "Just-just so you're aware, the gun is his idea. I'm just a, you know - "

"My hostage!" Said Sherlock, aiming at John's head.

"Hostage! Yes, that works. That works!"

Sherlock started to lead the way, pushing John back and walking away from the police.

"So what now?"

"Doing what Moriarty wants. I'm becoming a fugitive. Run!"

All the police officers, Greg, Lestrade and their superior looked at the two men running together.

"Get him, Lestrade!"

Sherlock looked at John and held his hand tightly. "Take my hand!"


	30. Bitter

"Everybody wants to believe it, that's what makes it so clever. A lie that's preferable to the truth. All my brilliant deductions were just a sham. No one feels inadequate," Sherlock breathed. "Sherlock Holmes is just an  _ordinary_  man."

John rubbed his wrist, the one that was connected to Sherlock's since both men were handcuffed together. "What about Mycroft? He could help us."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "A big family reconciliation? Now's not really the moment."

"Sherlock -"

"Not now, John," Sherlock almost pressed John against the wall. "Not now."

"But Sherlock -"

"One of my new neighbours from Baker Street is following me. Let's see if he can give us some answers."

Sherlock led the way and soon two men were in front of a road and a bus was coming towards them.

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to jump in front of that bus."

"What?!"

The detective dragged John and both stood in front of the coming bus. John thought it was their end. It is incredible how much you can think when you think you're going to die. John thought he was going to die, he just thought they were going to die together. The doctor thought Sherlock was committing suicide and was dragging him into it.

But a man pushed them off the road and both fell to the floor together, Sherlock dragging the mysterious man with them.

"Tell me what you want from me. Tell me!"

"He left it at your flat," said the man in a very clumsy English.

"Who?"

"Moriarty."

"What?"

"The computer keycode."

A gunshot was heard and the man they were talking to fell dead.

John gasped scared. But Sherlock ignored it.

"Of course," Sherlock soon realised what was this about. "He's selling it... the programme he used to break into the Tower. He planted it when he came around. It's a game-changer. It's a key and it can break into  _any_  system and it's sitting in our flat right now. That's why he left that message telling everyone where to come.  _Get Sherlock_. We need to get back into the flat and search."

"CID'll be camped out. Why plant it on you?"

"It's another subtle way of smearing my name. Now I'm best pals with all those criminals."

"Have you seen this? A kiss and tell. Some bloke called Rich Brook."

John found a pile of papers and at the top of it was The Sun and a bit of the huge exposé Kitty Riley had written for the paper. It was 'The truth about Sherlock Holmes'. John didn't need to read it to know what it was about. Suddenly everyone was against Sherlock - everyone. Greg, all the Yarders, apparently Mycroft who was nowhere to be seen and who John, at this point, expected to show up and help their brother.

This was unfair. John knew it was. But he just couldn't understand why this was happening.

And why now.

And why Sherlock seemed so helpless.

Why Mycroft was doing nothing?

And who was Richard Brook?

"Who is he?"

Sherlock said nothing and led the way again.

* * *

At Kitty's flat they met Moriarty. But he was not Moriarty. The man John met at that pool, when he had enough semtex tied to his chest to blow up the very same Big Ben, said he was not Moriarty, that he was an actor Sherlock had hired all along to play his nemesis. And the man had proofs! John just couldn't believe it! John was sure of who Sherlock Holmes was. They had grown up together. Sherlock wasn't a fake. Sherlock would have never hired someone to play his nemesis.

The man was lying.

He had to.

But when they tried to get him, he ran away.

"Can he do that? Completely change his identity and make you the criminal?"

"He's got my whole life story," Sherlock said with an air of bitterness. "That's what you do when you sell a big lie: you wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable."

"Your word against his."

"He's been sowing doubt into people's minds for the last twenty-four hours. There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game, and that's to -"

That's it.

That's what Moriarty wanted.

"Sherlock?" John could feel Sherlock tensing. There was a little thing in his eyes John could have sworn were tears. "Sherlock, look -"

"There's something I need to do."

John tried to reach out for him, but Sherlock stepped back, almost rejecting his touch, "Sherlock, listen to me -"

"I have to go."

"What? Can I help?"

"No," Sherlock said, his eyes on John's. "I'm on my own."

* * *

"She has  _really_  done her homework, Miss Riley... things that only someone  _close_  to Sherlock could know."

"Ah."

Mycroft found John sitting on the chair across his. He was reading the paper with the bit of the big exposé written by Kitty Riley for The Sun. John was angry, Mycroft knew it. He didn't need to be Mycroft Holmes or be at least a bit clever to know that. It was clear and it was, mostly,  _expected._

"Have you seen your brother's address book lately? Two names: yours and mine, and Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me."

"John -"

"So how does it work, then, your relationship? D'you go out for a coffee now and then, eh, you and Jim?" John did wait for Mycroft to sit don, but he did not wait for him to reply. "Your own  _brother,_  and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac."

Mycroft closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I never inten- I never dreamt -"

"So this, this, this this," John stammered, with little, almost imperceptible tears in his eyes. "is what you were trying to tell me, isn't it: "Watch his back, because I've made a mistake."

Mycroft said nothing because he knew whatever he said John was not going to believe him.

Naturally.

John was clever. Maybe as clever as he and Sherlock were. The politician was sure John ad inherited their cleverness too, but John didn't know how to use it. John could sense there was a plan, a scheme.

But John would never find out.

_"Why you made Sherlock cry?" A ten year old John asked Mycroft._

_The teenager shrugged and kept on reading the papers. "He had it coming."_

_"But why? He didn't do anything to you!"_

_"Yes he did," Mycroft said, his eyes on the papers he was reading and not on his brother John who was standing next to him, asking why his brother Sherlock was upstairs crying and not having breakfast with them. "He ate the my slice of cake."_

_"It was me."_

_Mycroft smiled. "I can tell when you lie."_

_John bit his lip. "He didn't mean it, okay?"_

_"Didn't he?"_

_"You're his hero, Myc. Sherlock says he wants to study lots and make you feel proud of him."_

_Mycroft turned and looked at John. It was true he could tell when he lied. And this time John was not lying. "What else did he say?"_

_"That he's goin' to the same uni as you and study more than you too."_

_John wasn't lying._

_"I'll tell you what we can do," Mycroft said, putting the papers aside and looking at his watch. "Tell Sherlock to dress properly and come downstairs. I'll take the two of you to London."_

_"Really?" John said with a huge smile. "Are we gonna eat fish an' chips too? Can we go to the -"_

_"Yes," Mycroft said waving his hand at him. "We'll go to all those places you like. Now go and tell your brother."_

Sometimes Mycroft wished those old days were back. He wished Sherlock and John had stayed little forever. Mycroft wished Sherlock had never done drugs, that John had never gone to Afghanistan.

He wished this game was over.

"How did you meet him?"

"People like him... we know about them; we watch them. But James Moriarty... the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, and in his pocket the ultimate weapon: a keycode. A few lines of computer code that could unlock any door."

"And you abducted him to try and find the keycode?"

"Interrogated him for weeks."

John nodded. "And?"

"He wouldn't play along." said Mycroft remembering the long sessions of beatings, punches, slapping. "He just sat there, staring into the darkness. The only thing that made him open up -" He stopped and looked at John. " _I_  could get him to talk, just a little but -"

"In return you had to offer him Sherlock's life story. So one big lie... Sherlock's a fraud. But people will swallow it because the rest of it's true." John leaned forward. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And  _you_  have given him the perfect ammunition."

John smiled bitterly. That smile wasn't the smile Mycroft remembered. Mycroft remembered John smiling happily, so honestly.

Now John was against him.

"John -" John was heading to the door when he turned. There was hatred in his eyes. That feeling Mycroft feared was there. "I'm sorry."

"Oh please, Mycroft. You -" He pointed at the politician with his index finger and shook his head. "You... you're letting Moriarty destroy Sherlock. Sherlock, who's your own flesh and blood. Your brother, Mycroft."

"I'm sorry," Mycroft repeated. "Tell him, would you."


	31. Fire

_"You didn't like me."_

_"Hmm?"_

_"When I got here," John said between mouthfuls of milkshake and cookies. "Mummy and dad said you were nice. When I got 'ere you didn't talk to me for a week."_

_Sherlock looked down, slightly embarrassed. Both twelve year old boys were drinking milk and eating cookies in Sherlock's room. The boys, close to be teenagers, had just finished their homework and now were surrounded by books Sherlock said he was getting rid of in order to get more science books and spy stories._

_"They didn't say they were bringing you."_

_John said nothing._

_"What were they like?"_

_"Who?"_

_"Your parents?"_

_"Ah," John finished his milk. "Nice. Mum was sweet. She..." the boy took one of Sherlock's new books and opened it at a random page. "she liked baking cookies."_

_Sherlock looked at his adoptive brother going through random pages, not meeting his eyes. "And your father?"_

_"Dad? I don't remember much about him. He smoked. Had a pipe or something like that, can't remember. But he," John made a pause. "He liked Harry best."_

_"Why?"_

_"Dunno. I think it was cause Harry's a girl. Fathers love their daughters, right?"_

_Sherlock shrugged. "Fathers should love their children equally, independently of their gender."_

_"Dunno," John repeated. "Maybe dad just didn't like me much."_

_They kept putting books away and putting new ones on the bookshelves for hours. Neither of them said a word about the subject again, about John's parents, his old family. Sherlock talked about an uncle he had but died a few months before John arrived. Little Sherlock said it was a pity John hadn't arrived before because this uncle liked giving him money. John said he liked their aunt Henrietta, who was an old lady, Mummy's cousin, who was round, had bright pink cheeks and ate always three slices of cake and two full cups of tea every time she came to visit._

_At night, mummy and dad were back and the four of them had dinner. Dad said he had visited Mycroft at uni and that he was doing very well, as expected. Mummy talked about her friends at the club and their tea party. Sherlock never talk unless asked, but John was very talkative and their father was very interested in his activities, and Sherlock's too._

_"When's the game, John?"_

_"Next week," replied John. "Are you gonna come and see me, dad?"_

_Their father wiped his mouth and drank some wine. "We'll see. There are matters of great importance at the office."_

_The following week Mr Holmes was sitting in the first row. He cheered John and his team won._

Now Sherlock understood everything. Their father never showed any preference over one of them: Mycroft, John or himself. But there were moments when it was clear there was something else between him and John. Of course. He should have seen it. Sherlock should have seen it but he didn't: his father was John's real father.

Mycroft was saying the truth: John was their father's bastard. When he knew about John's mother and partner being killed, Harry almost killing John in a car accident, he decided to take John in. Sherlock wondered what their mother said, how she felt. But again, he didn't need to be clever to know what his mother must have felt.

John had their father's eyes. John was clever, that's why he became a doctor and got the best grades. John had their cleverness but John had never developed their deductive skills.

The man Sherlock loved was his brother, his real brother.

Before this Sherlock wanted to tell John he loved him. When he realised John was that 'adoptive' brother he couldn't remember, Sherlock's relief was that they shared no blood.

But they actually did.

Nothing could possibly happen between them.

Never.

"Got your message," said John, opening the door of the very same lab in which both found each other again. "What do we do?"

Sherlock didn't move but instead focused on John, who was taking his jacket off and sitting around one of the lab tables.

"Why you never told me the truth?"

John froze. "What?"

"Why you never told me you were my brother?" Sherlock asked, his mouth dry.

"Sherlock -"

"It was Mycroft, wasn't it?"

"No."

" _Please._ "

"I didn't tell you because you didn't remember me." John finally confessed. "When Mike Stamford introduced us you acted as if I were a stranger -"

"Because you were," Sherlock cut John off. "You promised mummy..." The detective stopped when he felt tears clouding his eyes. "You left me. You left..."

John went furious. "You said we were not brothers! You said I was just a child father got for mummy - that I was no one!"

"I told you I never meant what I'd said -"

"Do you know what I felt?"

"John..."

"Sherlock," John sighed. "I sent you letters. When I was out there, fighting, all I thought was... you and our family. I know what happened when mummy died and you should know I'm sorry for not being here."

Sherlock stood. "It doesn't matter now."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

John frowned. "Sherlock, what -"

The detective aimed a gun at John and fired.

John immediately felt that familiar pain again right in the middle of his chest. He looked down and saw a little blood stain growing and growing. "Why?"

"Fall backwards," Sherlock instructed him as the pressed a phone to his ear and said something about a rooftop. "John, you've got to fall backwards."

John fell backwards. And when his body hit the ground, Sherlock knelt next to him and stroked his hair. "I'm sorry."

The doctor closed his eyes and everything went black.

* * *

"Here we are at last... you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem." Jim said from his spot, sitting almost on the edge of the rooftop. "All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have _you_. Because I've beaten you."

The detective looked at the place. There were no possible escapes.

That was good.

"And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out _you're_ ordinary just like all of them. Ah well. Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"

"Richard Brook."

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do."

"Of course."

"Attaboy."

"Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach," Sherlock explained. "the case that made my name."

"Just tryin' to have some fun. Do you have anything else to say?"

Sherlock looked at his enemy, his nemesis, his rival. "The code. You planted it on me. Every beat is a one, every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me... hidden inside my head – a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."

"I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy. Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears?"

Sherlock smiled. "No."

Jim turned confusedly. "I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it."

"Of course."

"Genius detective proved to be a fraud." I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales."

* * *

"John? John, stay with us. Come on, boy, stay with us!"

The only thing the doctor could understand was a voice. A male voice and lights. There was a strong light blinding his eyes. He felt cold and nauseous.

Someone was pulling at his clothes and he felt a pair of cold scissors cutting the fabric of his shirt.

John couldn't understand what was happening, why there were so many people around him, running, shouting.

"Sher..." he tried to speak.

"Hush," It's okay. We got you."

"Sher..."

Everything went black again.

John was dying.


End file.
